The Butterfly Serial
by Crazy Victoria
Summary: [GC] Twelve years ago, New York, Miami, and Las Vegas were terrorized by The Butterfly Man. After three years of hunting for the real killer, and one loss of a Las Vegas CSI, the trail went cold. Now, he's back. And he's out for CSI blood.
1. Pretty Vegas

_A/N: My new story—it wasn't planned this way, I'm working on four other ones, but this popped into my head and was begging to be written. Plus, I've wanted to do a three-show crossover for a very, very long time. And it's GC. If you don't like GC…/shrugs/. Anyway…enjoy!_

Miami  
10:00 AM  
MINT Parking Lot

Horatio Caine was frowning.  
This is in itself was not an unusual occurrence. Caine spent a lot of this time frowning, whether in thought, anger, or otherwise. Still, he was frowning. And so they stayed silent.

"Uh, H?" Eric Delko looked quizzically at his boss. Caine didn't reply. He was staring across the parking lot the stood in, Miami Beach barely hidden by the skyscraper in front of it. His brow was furrowed.

"We've got a problem," he finally spoke. His voice was deep, husky—serious.

"Well, yeah, H," Tim Speedle said, crouched next to a body that lay sprawled in the lot. Next to him, Calleigh Duquesne clutched a camera and was staring expectantly up at Horatio.

"No, Speed, I mean I big problem. Did you notice anything unusual about this scene?" He indicated the body, a laceration cut wide over her heart, nearly hidden by the paint that coated her nude body. The victim's corpse had been her killer's canvas—she was decorated in an intricate design, all coming together to form what looked like the wing of a butterfly.

"Give me a little credit, H," Speed snapped a shot of the butterfly woman with the Canon, "But what's so special about this one? Looks like a pervert act to me."

"Touch the body."

"H?"

"Touch it, Speed."

Not daring to question his boss, Speedle ran his finger over the shoulder. A faint trace of colour came away on his latex-gloved hand.

"What's that about?" Calleigh asked.

Caine said nothing. He frowned, slipped on his trademark sunglasses, and sighed.

"I think we may need to make a phone call."

New York City  
1:00 PM  
Central Park

Mac Taylor was puzzled.

It happened often. Being puzzled was how he got from being completely clueless to in-the-know. But still, it was a little frustrating. And to top it off, it was boiling hot in the heart of New York City where he stood with a group of men and women, surrounded by yellow tape in the city's most famous park.

"What d'you think, boss?" Don Flack questioned his superior. Mac shook his head.

"I don't know," he said. The body of a woman laying naked, completely painted as the left wing a butterfly, was disturbing, to say the least.

"The substance on her body is still wet," Stella Bonasera looked surprised. Aiden Burn quickly took a few rounds of photos with the camera around her neck. Stella glanced up at the man in front of her. "Look familiar, Mac?"

Mac said nothing. He studied the body for a few moments, the spoke.

"I've seen this before—you're right, Stella. But it's been years," he half-muttered the last part to himself as he looked around the scene. Danny Messer was confused.

"Care to elaborate?"

Again, Mac shook his head.

"It's too early to tell. We'll have to get the body to Sheldon, first."

Stella glanced up at him.

"And before we do that?"

Mac smiled.

"We make a phone call."

Las Vegas  
11:00AM  
Gil Grissom's Townhouse

Gil Grissom was sleeping.

These days, that was quite an unusual thing for him to do. In between to triple homicides, one break-and-enter, Conrad Ecklie, and mounting case reviews, Grissom rarely saw the townhouse he called home. So when he had finally closed up the break-and-enter, Grissom had clocked out, driven home, and collapsed into bed. The only sign that he was even alive was the steady rise and fall of his chest as he slept. Other than that, the entomologist was dead to the world.

Which was why he failed to hear the first four shrill rings of his telephone when it started ringing on the nightstand. Groping blindly for it, his fingers finally closed over the cool plastic of the now loathed phone and clicked it on.

"Grissom," he muttered sleepily.

"Hey, sleeping beauty," Catherine Willows' sultry voice floated over the phone, "I really hate to wake you, but I just got a call from Horatio Caine down in Miami. They've got a live one. New York, too."

Grissom sat up, fully awake now.

"How live?"

"Twelve years live," she replied, "remember Butterfly Man?"

Grissom nearly dropped the phone. He quickly slid out of bed and started rooting around his closet for a fresh set of clothes.

"When did the call come in?" He asked, pulling a button-up shirt from the rack of clothes.

"Twenty minutes ago. I ran it through the database, just to be sure—it's him, Gil."

"Okay…print out the old case files and meet me in my office. I'll be there in twenty."

"Okay, I'll be here. And Gil?"

"Yeah."

"Don't wear that shirt."

"Cath, what--?"

"Wear the tan one, instead. You wear too much black."

The phone clicked off and Grissom began to dress—but not before selecting the tan button-up from the closet, and placing the black on back inside.

A/N: Liked it? Hated it? Feel like chucking the keyboard? Let me know!


	2. Leavin' on a Jet Plane

Las Vegas  
11:30AM  
LVPD Crime Lab

The Las Vegas Police Department's Crime Lab was buzzing with activity as Grissom entered its blue-lit walls. The building looked vastly different to him in the daytime, when rich, golden sunlight lit the glass-walled lab and it came alive with well-rested men and women travelling throughout it. He was immune to all this and instead made a beeline for his office where he knew Catherine Willows would be waiting.

"What've we got?" Grissom breezed through the office door and deposited his briefcase on the always-cluttered desk.

"Cold case from twenty years ago—the 'Butterfly Man'. Kidnaps his victims over three days, repeatedly rapes and assaults them, then stabs them in the chest and paints them as part of a butterfly."

Catherine glanced up from reading. Tall, slim, with strawberry blonde hair and stunningly blue eyes, she wore black slacks with a v-necked pullover and blazer. He looked her up and down.

"Hypocrite."

"Hey, I'm in mourning of the loss of yet another couple hours of sleep. And I told you I liked the tan shirt better." She smirked. "Now, here's the important thing: two parts of the butterfly have been found in both New York and Miami, just like twenty years ago. But we still haven't found our girl. Which means…"

Grissom sighed.

"Our guy is somewhere in Las Vegas as we speak."

Catherine smiled sadly. She closed to folder and slipped into the chair in front of the desk, while Grissom sat himself behind it.

"Right. And we have no idea what we're looking for."

It was silent in the office. The tarantula on Grissom's desk crawled helplessly against the glass aquarium it was housed in, trying to make an escape even it knew it couldn't accomplish. Grissom stared at it, as though willing the spider to jump up and spout words of wisdom at him. It didn't. Finally, he raised his blue eyes to meet Catherine's.

"There's only one thing to do, isn't there?" He heard her sigh dejectedly.

"It has to be done. He's going to strike again. We'll leave Dayshift to find her?"

"It looks like we'll have to." Grissom got up now, moving around the office, plucking random books and files from various shelves and piling them on his desk. "I don't want this guy starting his cycle again. We failed nine women last time, Catherine. Not this time. Call Brass. Tell him what's going on, then have Judy book seven tickets for the earliest flight out of Vegas."

"Destination?" Catherine was already out of her seat and at the door.

Grissom twitched a little half-smile.

"New York."

New York  
12:00PM  
NYPD Crime Unit

"Yes. Uh huh. No, that's fine, we'll manage. Of course. Nine A.M.. We'll see you then."

Mac Taylor hung up the phone and pinched the bridge of his not irritably. Tall, nearly six feet, with dark hair and blue eyes, Mac sat at his desk in black pants and blue suit shirt and tie, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He'd just received calls from both Las Vegas and Miami. Two CSI teams were coming into New York the next day, and would he be able to meet with them and arrange transportation back to the lab? Stella had already got on the phone to LaGuardia to check the flight times, so he reluctantly picked up the phone once again and ordered two vans to meet him at the airport for nine o'clock.

He sighed. It was going to be a long day.

"Hey, Mac?" Danny Messer knocked on the glass door of Mac's office.

"Yeah?"

"Sheldon's photos of the butterfly lady, just in," Danny handed a stack of photos to his boss. "He's in prep now."

Mac began flipping through the photos. Blank stares glared back at him, the woman's battered body telling a story of her torture, of her pain. By the end of her three days, Mac knew all the woman would have wanted was to die. Not one person he knew would have wanted to live after the time spent with the murderer.

"Mac?" Danny brought Mac back to the present. "What's really going on? I mean, bringing _three _CSI teams together seems—I dunno…a little much."

Mac levelled his gaze with Danny's.

"When these murders started twenty years ago, we couldn't put two and two together fast enough to stop nine women from dying. The teams never managed to catch the man that started the murders—there were suspects, sure. At the time, the Vegas team was dead sure they had him."

"What happened?"

"One of their CSIs disappeared while they were interrogating their prime suspect. Three days later…"

"Madam Butterfly," Danny said.

"Exactly. So this time, it's crucial we stop him. We're all in this together, remember."

Danny studied Mac for a moment, then stood and made his way to the glass doors of Mac's office.

"Hey, boss?"

Mac glanced up from the photos.

"Yeah, Danny?"

"You're keeping all of us in one place for a reason, aren't you?"

Mac smiled.

"Oh, yes."

Nodding, Danny silently left the office, and Mac got back to work. There was quite a lot to do in twenty-four hours.

Miami  
Day 2- 6:00AM  
Miami International Airport (MIA)

Miami International Airport was swarmed with people as Horatio Caine met his team at the arrivals area. He carried a single briefcase with him; the rest of his and the team's baggage had been checked at the front desk, along with all of their supplies and field kits. Only Calleigh carried her silver flight-wing kit with her on Horatio's request, lest something occur on the plane that they hadn't expected.

It amazed Caine that, even at six in the morning, the men and women around him managed to be completely alive and alert, shouting at each other over cell-phones or through the walkie-talkies of the security guards, toting roll-on suitcases or screaming children with their faces covered in sticky orange goo and pulling their own children's size bag stuffed with plush animals and funnily dressed dolls. Their parents looked like hey were about to reach their breaking point. Indeed, one hastily dressed blonde woman next to him was desperately trying to shush her wailing daughter, whose sundress was splashed with the red juice she'd spilled down her front from the sippy cup clutched tightly in her little fingers. Her sister, a tough-looking girl of sixteen, sat unaware of the situation as her head bobbed to the music filtered into her ears from her iPod.

Caine shook his head. A quick glance out the window of the terminal told him he would only have to wait a few more minutes for the overnight flight from Las Vegas to land. A few more minutes, and the show would _really _begin.

_A/N: As always, I love feedback, whether it be a rant, rave, or if you want to tell me about the weather (but I'd really love the first two more). I'd also like to note that I haven't exactly decided a)What I'm referring to Horatio as (Horation or Caine) and b) What I'm referring to Griss as. Not that it's that important /shrugs/. Another chapter down! _


	3. In a New York State of Mind

American Airlines Flight 1842 to Miami  
Day 2- 5:30 AM  
Passenger Cabin

Jim Brass stretched stiffly in his seat next to the fogged window. He'd just been unwillingly woken from a rather pleasant dream involving a stretch of golden beach and Mimosas by the pilot's voice over the plane's intercom.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we're about fifteen minutes away from begging our descent into Miami. We now ask that all tray tables and chair backs be returned to their upright and proper positions. Thank you."

_No, _Jim thought, rubbing his tired eyes, _thank _you _for waking me up. _He looked over at the still sleeping couple next to him. Catherine Willows sat curled up in her seat, curly strawberry-blonde head pillowed comfortably on Gil Grissom's black-clad shoulder. Grissom's own head rested lightly on his working partner's of twenty-four years.

In front of them, Greg Sanders, blonde streaked hair spiked every which way, was engaged in a fierce thumb war with the casually dressed Sara Sidle. Her slightly curly brown hair caught Nick Stokes' attention momentarily, who was in the middle of a conversation with the dark-skinned Warrick Brown across the aisle from him. Nick's Texan accent sounded distinctly tired, as did Warrick's deep tenor—for the graveyard shift, sleep had eluded their grasp since the calls from New York and Miami had come in the night before. Warrick slumped slightly in his seat and allowed the _Rolling Stone_ magazine to slide from his grasp and onto the floor. Nick continued their debate.

"No way man," Nick said, "_Halo. _Gotta be."

"No, it was _Final Fantasy, _I'm tellin' ya." Warrick replied. "Ask Greg."

Nick shrugged.

"Hey, Greg!"

The group continued to chat as the plane slowly descended into Miami. Jim watched as Grissom finally awoke, blinking out the light and trying not to wake the sleeping woman snuggled next to him.

"Morning," Jim said, yawning slightly through the word.

"Morning," Grissom whispered. Catherine, next to him, stirred slightly. Grissom quickly put a finger to his lips to shush Jim. Jim just smirked. The two together had always been a source of great amazement and amusement to the Detective.

With a yawn, Catherine woke from her slumber and slowly looked up at Gil.

"Good morning." She sounded tired.

"Morning back. Ready to land?" Gil indicated the expanse of Miami that lay out the window. She smiled.

"Of course. Are you?"

Gil sighed. He knew she was slyly referring to the potentially disastrous case that stood in front of them.

"Ready as I'll ever be."

Miami  
Day 2- 6:00 AM  
Miami International Airport Arrivals

It smelled of airport.

Personally, Catherine loved and loathed the scent. Loved it for the feeling it gave her, of the promise of adventure that lay before her. It reminded her of the many conference calls she'd made with Gil over the years; the trips to Chicago, Seattle…they'd done it all. The loathing of the smell came from the sheer texture of the air it occupied: stale, dry. She supposed it had something to do with the decontamination procedure of the airlines.

Gil, for his part, didn't care much about the scent of the building as he and his team- plus Brass- entered the Arrivals area. He'd never liked crowds. It was a stupid thing to dislike when one considered where Gil had chosen to make his home, but it was the principle of the thing, wasn't it? Crowds were dangerous. A group of people, all intent on getting to their own personal destinations without any thought of the person standing right next to them. But when threatened, crowds turned into mobs. People were no longer intent on getting anywhere. Their intent was to take down whatever was in their path as quickly as possible, as violently as possible. Gil hated crowds. The crowd ahead of him was no exception.

Except the crowd ahead of him contained Horatio Caine.

And his team.

Catherine was grinning.

Gil was not.

"Horatio Caine," Catherine smiled and shook his hand warmly, "It's been a while."

"Undoubtedly too long, Ms. Willows," the red-head man smiled back at the red-headed woman, "undoubtedly too long."

Introductions were made. Warrick and Catherine had already been acquainted with the Miami CSIs, having flown down three years ago to investigate the untimely death of Las Vegas' former chief of Detectives. But Gil, who had only corresponded with Caine once, found himself suddenly meeting the entirety of Miami Dade County's CSI dayshift. Calleigh Duquesne, with her long blonde hair and warm southern accent, Tim Speedle, with his laid-back look and deep eyes, Eric Delko, with his blue eyes and New York accent, and finally Horatio Caine, donned in his infamous sunglasses.

"I hate to have to break up the gathering," Calleigh placed a hand on Horatio's arm to draw his attention, "But we have half an hour to catch our flight, Horatio."

Eyebrows were raised in alarm. Wild glances were exchanged. Bags were quickly thrown over shoulders.

Eleven pairs of feet turned and ran towards Departures.

New York  
Day 2- 9:40 AM  
LaGuardia Airport

LaGuardia airport was significantly smaller than Miami International Airport. The hallway the group entered was already full of people waiting to pass security, grumbling as they were delayed by a line eighty people long. Gil was eternally glad he was not leaving New York that day.

But, then again, he was also eternally remorseful he was not leaving New York that day, too.

The eleven CSIs—seven Las Vegas and four Miami—descended to the underbelly of the building by way of the escalator (Greg got stuck momentarily with his suitcase) and found themselves greeted by NYPD's finest.

"Detective Taylor," Horatio addressed the hardened-looking man in front of the group. Next to him, his partner, the half-Greek, curly haired Stella Bonasera greeted the group warmly, hugging the three women and grasping the men's arms as she shook their hands. Danny Messer nodded to them, while Aiden Burn smiled and took the hands outstretched to her, questioning about their flight, while Don Flack gave a half smile and shook hands, also. Mac and Stella appeared to be the only two New York CSIs without the telltale New York accent in their soft speech.

"We've arranged two vans to meet us here, so if you'll follow us…"

Mac led the way out into the suffocating humidity that was New York City. If it affected the Miami team, they did not show it, but the Las Vegas patrons, who were used to hot, dry desert, were not prepared for the overwhelming feeling of complete heat envelopment of their bodies as they left the air-conditioned airport. Catherine immediately wanted to re-enter the building.

Stella caught the look on her face and laughed.

"It's a bit overpowering at first, isn't it?"

"I'll say," Catherine replied, "do you ever get used to it?"

"Oh, yeah," Stella glanced around as they crossed the busy street in front of the parking garage, "you won't notice it after a while. Just stick to light cottons. No heavy fabric, or you'll sweat like crazy. And stay hydrated." Stella offered a smile, which Catherine returned. She liked the friendly New Yorker.

"Uh, Stella?" Mac's voice interrupted the women's conversation.

"Yeah."

Mac looked around the packed parking garage and sighed.

"Where did we park?"

Laughter reverberated around the cement structure. The absurdity of a CSI not being able to find a car was familiar to all of them, every person having done it at least once. Sara pointed towards two white vans barely poking out from behind an SUV down the floor.

"Is that them?"

Stella smiled triumphantly and led the group into the two vans, the Vegas team splitting up as Sara, Greg, Nick, and Warrick climbed into the first van with Tim, Eric, Aiden, and Danny at the wheel. Stella herself slipped behind the steering wheel with Catherine next to her as Mac, Gil, Horatio, Calleigh, and Brass took the backseat.

Roaring the vans to life, Stella and Danny drove the three legendary CSI teams through the streets of New York City, as the CSIs themselves became familiar with the people they would ultimately learn to call friends.

_A/N: This was going to be put up much sooner, but a little thing called life got in the way. As always, I love reviews—they're better than chocolate. And a huge thank you to _Drusilla Braun, 4maxine, slizc, chan, coolcatz, gloomy forensic scientist, and Mrs CW Grissom _(what a help you were! I love constructive reviews!). I hope you like this chapter. Another rchapter is in the process, but I have about four other fics I'm working on (damn random ideas…). This story is definitely the priority, though.  
Click the purple button!_


	4. You Can't Look Away

New York  
10:30 AM  
NYPD Crime Unit

The brightly lit walls of the NYPD Crime Unit looked vastly different to Horatio Caine as he and his team, plus the Las Vegas crew, entered it. He remembered the building as dark, foreboding, with cement walls and dark green paint that were a sharp contrast to the stark white lab that had housed some of the top machinery in forensic technology. Now, enclosed in a high-rise building, the Crime Unit had a friendly, warm atmosphere that threw Horatio off.

"Different, isn't it?" Stella asked him with a smile. Horatio nodded, but stayed silent.

Mac pointed out the different areas of the lab as they toured through it. Ballistics, DNA, Trace, it was all a blur to Grissom. All he wanted to do was lock himself up with the case files and not meet sunlight until he'd solved the murders.

Unfortunately, the fifteen other people around him may have objected to that.

The office Mac led them into was comprised almost entirely of glass, with soft yellow walls and pleasantly crowded shelves. It was significantly more organized than the supervisor of the Graveyard shift's.

"I thought this would be the easiest place to work out of," Mac explained, and indicated for everyone to sit down in the chairs and couches he and Stella had pulled in there earlier.

They did. Sara, Nick, Warrick, and Greg piled themselves onto one of the couches while Speedle and Eric places themselves next to Calleigh on the other, Horatio next to her on the arm. Brass sat himself on one of the chairs out of the way (he was strictly observing, for now), Aiden, Danny, and Flack pulled their own chairs over to the others, while Stella perched herself on Mac's desk. He stood leaning on the piece of furniture beside her. Grissom and Catherine slipped themselves onto the last remaining couch. Grissom pointedly ignored Jim's slight smirk.

"Well, now that we're all comfortable—" Greg grumbled audibly under Mac's comment, mumbling about Sara's sharp elbows—"I thought we'd start with what we know.

"After studying the pattern of our man from last time, we can safely assume that he will continue to kidnap his victims for two days at a time, from Miami, Vegas, and here. He keeps the bodies until the Sunday, dumps them over the following week. Miami on Monday, here on Wednesday, Vegas on Friday. He goes quiet for a week to ditch the bodies. Then he starts again the next week."

"Which means a woman in Miami is being kidnapped as we speak," Horatio said.

"But, hang on, guys—think about it: how is _one _guy doing this? It seems ridiculously improbable for this guy to run a one-man circus act in three different cities." Sara glanced around the room. "Are you sure this isn't three different men?"

Horatio was the one to answer the young brunette.

"We collected a single fingerprint from every body, Miss Sidle—I myself had asked the same question. We recovered the prints from a laser viewing of the body; the prints were imprinted in the paint. And they all definitely came from the same man."

Quiet muttering broke out amongst the group. Calleigh spoke over it.

"Has the paint been analyzed? Chemical breakdowns?"

"Danny and I ran it," Aiden said, "We also did a comparison with the samples you guys sent to us." Danny nodded, adding,

"They're chemically identical. We haven't been able to track down the manufacturer, yet, though."

Mac levelled his gaze at his team.

"Danny, Aiden, I want you guys to keep chasing the manufacturer. Nationwide search. Analyze the hairs left in the paint, as well. Can't hurt is to know what kind of brush he's using."

"We'll join you," Greg glanced at Sara, "we were in the middle of reviewing to old case breakdowns, anyway."

The four rose, and, chatting to each other, disappeared down the hall.

Now Don Flack spoke up. His accent was New York thick.

"Well, if we're all splitting up, I think I'd better start tracking down some of our old suspects." He turned to Brass. "Want to join in? I can use all the help I can get."

Brass, a little taken aback at being flawlessly included into the investigation without a fuss, simply nodded and joined Flack in leaving the office.

"I guess we'll go back to the crime scene," Calleigh glanced at the men next to and across from her.

"You know your way around?" Mac asked her as Nick, Speedle, Warrick, and Eric stood.

Nick smiled.

"I'm sure we'll be able to find our way around, right guys?"

They left. Now Stella spoke.

"So…that leaves us doing what?" She looked at Mac for the assignment. His face looked stony.

"Dr. Grissom, Ms. Willows, you were there last time," Mac addressed the two Las Vegas CSIs, "I'm concerned about the kidnapping of the CSI. I don't want that this time. What happened?"

Catherine smiled at the New York CSI.

"First thing's first: call me Catherine. Ms. Willows makes me feel old." Stella smiled appreciatively at that. Gil just looked amazed. "And, to answer your question…last time was—hard. Our CSI, Shrina Housen, was processing the last scene while we interrogated our prime suspect. Harold Stillwaiter. Bus driver. Had the means, the motive, and the bus route. Three of the women that were killed were ex-wives of Stillwaiter."

Gil took over, speaking for the first time since entering the office.

"Shrina was kidnapped while Stillwaiter dodged questions. We found her two days late while Stillwaiter was still in police custody. Coke bust."

Horatio sighed.

"It looks like we'll have to watch our backs. Police escorts. Everyone armed at all times."

"Exactly," Stella agreed. "And no one goes _anywhere _alone. Double-up."

Mac moved from his place next to Stella, making his way around the desk, stopping to pull out a window marker before heading over to one of the glass walls and drawing a large square.

"Here's our time frame."

Using a ruler, the CSI divided the square into seven-by-five rows, filling in the days and dates of August.

"It's the eighth today. That means that a woman in Miami will be kidnapped today. She'll be killed tomorrow. On Wednesday, a woman here. Dead Thursday. Vegas, Friday. Dead Saturday. And we have two days to catch this bastard before our girl goes missing and we have another butterfly on our hands."

Mac filled in the information as he spoke, until the last body dump was predicted. He capped the lid on the marker and looked up at the four before him.

"We're running out of time."

_A/N: Again, a huge thank you to my reviewers (I wish I could see who you are, but my internet's being screwy right now!). This chapter was mostly info—boring, but necessary. Hopefully the next part will be along within the week.  
Click the purple button!_


	5. Strawberry Fields Forever

New York  
Day 2-- 11:30 AM  
Strawberry Fields, Central Park

Nick Stokes was hot.

Sweat beaded on his brow, ran down his face and into his collar. His legs were achingly warm, and on his back was a fine sheen of perspiration. He was sweating in places he didn't even know he _could _sweat. The Nevada desert he could handle. The New York humidity he could not.

The water bottle in his hand made its way to his mouth without Nick realizing he'd moved it. The cool water slid down his parched throat, providing momentary relief to the intense heat surrounding he and the other criminalists around him. Now was one of the times Nick was glad he chosen Las Vegas as home.

"There's nothing here." Calleigh sat crouched next to where the original body dump had taken place, a camera around her neck and a look of defeat on her face.

"Well, hang on," Eric said, "let's re-examine what we know: Our Jane Doe was kidnapped Wednesday. She endured forty-eight hours of rape and torture before being killed, painted, and dumped Thursday. She's left here with a knife in her chest--"

"Knife?" Warrick's eyes went wide. He pulled out the crime scene photos and flipped through them, "there's no knife in any of these pictures."

Speedle, cottoning on to Warrick's train of thought, retrieved the evidence inventory from the file next to him and ran down the list.

"No knife was collected from the initial investigation, either," he put the papers back.

The five glanced at each other before each heading straight to the back of the SUV and retrieving headphones and metal detectors.

"I've got East," Calleigh said, slipping her headset on and setting up the detector.

"West." Eric set out, followed by Nick, who would go North; Warrick, who would go South; and Speedle, who would examine the dump area.

They worked in silence for over an hour. Once in a while, one of them would signal to the others a possible discovery, but for the most part the area was examined without incident.

Tim was ready to give up. He was hot, tired. His clothes were covered in dirt. The headphones attached to his ears were pinging with old quarters, pop cans, and broken watch parts. It was useless.

A ping.

He swung the detector over the patch of dirt again.

Another ping.

His eyes went wide.

Speedle scanmed the ground. Freshly dug dirt.

He signalled the others.

"What've you got?" Calleigh pulled her headphones off and made her way over to Speedle.

"Take a look."

The three behind them craned their necks.

"Looks fresh to me," Warrick snapped a shot of the area before Calleigh got to her knees and began to dig.

The joined. Together, the dirt was sifted and scanned, then placed in containers that would later be examined at the lab. Eric placed the containers in the back of the SUV.

"Guys," Nick warned the CSIs around him to slow. He pulled out a brush and dusted away the remaining dirt from the now revealed knife.

"Positive for blood," Calleigh held the pink-indicated swab for the others to see. Nick shot a picture of it.

"There's something else down here," Tim said.

After snapping a shot of the partially revealed object, Tim dug it out and examined it in the light. The sign of the LVPD star glinted back at him.

Warrick sighed.

"Shrina Housen's police badge."

New York  
Day 2--12:45 PM  
Crime Unit Morgue

Blue glass, green-lit floors, and a busy atmosphere defined the Crime Unit's morgue. Gil Grissom stood with Horatio Caine next to a metal slab, in front of them their butterflied Jane Doe. Sheldon Hawkes stood across from them.

"Cause of death is no mystery," Hawkes, dark-skinned and limber, pulled the sheet down on the butterfly woman to reveal a deep wound over the woman's heart. "She was stabbed vertically, once, severing the major arteries. I found the tip of what looks to be a knife lodged in her right ventricle."

Hawkes handed a covered petrie dish to Grissom. He examined it for a moment, then looked up at the coroner again.

"Anything else?"

"Not much. Rape kit was collected—foreign object, most likely. I tweezed some leaf matter from her hair, as well. Sent it off to Trace."

Nodding, both Grissom and Horatio bade farewell to Hawkes and left to morgue. Grissom's phone rang.

"Grissom."

"It's me. I just got a call from Nicky and Warrick. They uncovered a knife while scouring the scene. They also found Shrina Housen's badge."

Grissom sighed.

"Did the knife have its tip on it, by any chance?"

"Warrick didn't mention anything, if it didn't. But the weapon did have blood on it."

"Okay…are they on their way back?"

"Yeah."

"Wait for us, then."

He could tell Catherine was confused.

"Anything you want to tell me?"

"Later."

They disconnected. Grissom continued along the corridor with Horatio beside him. The two looked an unlikely pair, Horatio's red hair paired with Grissom's salt-and-pepper, elegant tan suit versus black slacks and button-up, glinting MDPD police badge to LVPD ID. Horatio walked with more of a gait, while Grissom was quick to take the steps that would lead him to his partner. Both were silent.

"Have you had many serials up in Las Vegas, Dr. Grissom?" Horatio's deep voice questioned the quiet CSI.

"Over the years? Only a handful. This guy—this case—has been the worst."

Horatio nodded.

"Undoubtedly. And Catherine…did she work with you last time, as well?"

Grissom regarded the man with careful scrutiny before answering.

"Yes."

"She's something," Horatio said, not noticing Grissom's prickling at the comment, "really something."

"Yes, she is." Grissom's reply was short, clipped.

"I was impressed with her when we met in Miami. Very professional."

"Yes, well, that's Catherine."

Horatio shot the man next to him an amused look. It seemed that Dr. Grissom was quite protective of his partner.

"You needn't have to worry," Horatio smiled, slipping on his sunglasses, "you needn't have to worry."

Grissom just kept walking.

_A/N: Huge thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far--your reviews are why I breath (well, that, and a need for oxygen). Let me know what you think. Constructive criticism, are you happy, are you not happy--tell me!  
Click the purple button!_


	6. Play the Game

New York  
Day 2-1:30 PM  
The Metropolitan Museum of Art

It had been the general agreement that the group, after a short meeting to inform those who did not know about the badge, that they once again divide and conquer. So Aiden, Greg, Danny, and Sara trudged out of the lab and into one of the NYPD SUVs, heading for Fifth Avenue, and the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

The building was huge, with marble walls and floors, level upon level of art, sculptures, antiques, and more people than humanly possible. Men and women of all ages meandered through the many galleries, dragging protesting children with the intention of educating their young minds with the works of Picasso. Monet, Degas, and Renoir would be thrown in later if time could be found. And all around them, crowds surged in floods to reach the next room as quickly as their feet would allow.

It was tourist season.

It was a nightmare.

"Have I mentioned how much I hate coming here during peak hours?" Danny's eyes followed a pretty blonde as she passed. Aiden smirked.

"I'll bet."

They continued on into the Great Hall, where a woman who Sara would have stereotyped as a librarian sat primly behind a grand desk.

"Hello. Admission is fifteen dollars for adults," she looked expectantly up at them.

"We've got a membership," Aiden flashed her badge. "We're looking for Donald Sinclair. He in?"

"One moment."

Greg and Sara took a moment while waiting for Sinclair, the supervising Art Manager, to gaze around open-mouthed at the building they occupied. Danny wasn't fazed by the grandeur of the columns and arches, and Aiden simply looked bored.

"Creep alert," Aiden muttered, as her eyes found the form of Sinclair. He was impeccably dressed in a navy pinstriped suit and tie, moustache neatly trimmed and his light brown hair coiffed. Danny kept his opinion of the man to himself.

"Donald Sinclair, I presume?"

"That would be me." Sinclair stuck his hand out for Danny to shake. The man's hands felt like smooth butter, as though he had just put lotion on—but then, Danny decided, he may have done just that. He hastily inserted his hands in his pockets.

"Mr. Sinclair, we're here about one of your artists. He may have had a gallery showing here in the past twelve years."

Sinclair looked amused.

"I'd love to help, but I need a name. And a warrant."

Aiden withdrew a folded piece of paper from her blazer and handed it to the man.

"The warrant we have," she said, "the name we don't."

"We recovered a paint sample from a high-profile Homicide victim," Danny picked up the trail for Aiden and saw Sinclair shift uncomfortably. "We broke it down. The chemical formula matches a formula used by one of your featured artists-a 'special recipe', according to your records."

"I wasn't aware we published our records for public viewing, Detective." Sinclair's voice was warning them to tread carefully.

"We're the NYPD, Mr. Sinclair," Aiden said, "We can do anything but sleep. Now do you want to tell us the name of the artist that you employed with this paint?"

She handed him the computer printout and he disappeared.

"Mr. Sinclair can find us on the roof." Danny told the women behind the desk. She nodded.

"Makes you wonder why the paint was listed, huh?" Greg asked as the group picked their way through the crowd.

"From what I gathered, our guy mixed his own stuff, then showed it to the curators. Probably made a fortune from the money they paid for it." Danny thumbed the 'up' button on the elevator they had entered to bring them to the vast rooftop of the museum.

Sara plucked a pamphlet from the container next to the elevator door and flipped through the features.

"Sol LeWitt," she read, stepping out onto the rooftop gardens, "featured rooftop artist—'Splotches, Whirls, and Twirls'. Think he did it?"

"Yeah, we'd be that lucky." Danny sighed.

They sat down to wait.

Twenty minutes later, after Greg and Sara had travelled the rooftop gallery twice, and after they had all stood and the cement waist-high roof wall as Danny and Aiden pointed landmarks out, Sinclair appeared with a file in his hand. The librarian-slash-secretary was behind him.

"Mr. Elliah Johnson had a gallery showing of his collection in 1993. His paint was purchased by our curators then same year, but it was stolen soon after a breaking and entering."

Aiden accepted the file and flipped it open while Danny addressed Sinclair.

"Did you report the theft?"

"Well, no," Sinclair avoided Danny's eyes. "We felt we didn't need to concern the police in the matter."

"Meaning you didn't want the publicity."

"I wouldn't say—"

Aiden cut him off.

"Where is Mr. Johnson now?"

"He is one of our long-distance partners. Very well-respected."

Sara and Greg eyed Sinclair with a significant amount of mistrust.

"Will he be returning to New York any time soon?" Aiden asked.

"Wednesday," Sinclair looked confused, "look, Mr. Johnson is a prominent figure here at the Met. Whatever you're investigating, he's not part of."

Aiden smiled.

"We'll see."

They left Sinclair and his assistant staring confusedly at each other and boarded the elevator.

"Son of a bitch gets Wednesday," Danny stabbed the down button angrily. Aiden shrugged.

"Hey, it could just be a coincidence."

They all looked at one another.

"Let's hope this coincidence doesn't ferry dead women around the country."

Silence. Greg smirked.

"Or stolen paint."

Sara punched him in the arm.

New York  
Day 2- 3:00 PM  
Marty's Hot Dog Stand

The corner stand of Central Park and Broadway contained the best hot dogs in a thirty-block radius. Mac knew this for a fact. He had worked on so many cases around the area, for so many years, that the hot dog vendor now knew he and Stella's names whenever they frequented the kiosk.

"How're ya doin', Detectives?" Marty Santano handed Mac and Stella two hot dogs.

"Not too bad, Marty." Mac picked up the kit next to him, paid the friendly vendor, and led Stella down the walk.

They met Grissom and Catherine at the SUV they had driven there earlier. Catherine was busily picking apart a pretzel and munching on it, staring pointedly at her partner, as though teasing him that he did not have his own pretzel. Grissom, quick as a flash, plucked the piece of fried dough that was about to enter her mouth and popped it into his. Catherine stared at him for a full open-mouthed minute before flicking him in the arm.

"Ow!" Mac heard Grissom say as they approached. Catherine smirked.

"Trouble?" Stella asked the pair, a smile evident in her voice.

"Trouble? No trouble." Catherine glanced over at Grissom. "Right, Gil?"

Grissom smiled slightly, choosing to remain silent. Mac's cell phone rang. He looked over at them.

"Excuse me," he said, as the phone went to his ear, "Taylor."

"Mac? Flack here. We've got a reporting of a break-and-enter. One body."

"DB's name?"

"Donald Sinclair."

Mac snapped the phone closed and climbed into the car next to him. The others quickly followed.

Stella had never known the SUV could go that fast.

_A/N: Okay, so I know that the MET isn't open on Mondays, but I _do _know Sol LeWitt's gallery _'Splotches, Whirls, and Twirls' _was open during the month of August, having visited it while I was in New York. I also felt a little lightness was needed with the pretzel scene, before things start to get hectic, so I really hope that was okay, as well. I was kind of accurate! Once again, many, many thanks to my reviewers _C.k.degu, DrusillaBraun _(awesome review—totally motivated me), _Evans, WCSPegasus, emmab _(If I told you, it would give away everything! And I, also, was not too sure about NY, but obviously I'm in complete love with it now))_, and MarciaG. _Many cookies for all!  
Click the purple button!_


	7. One Way, or Another

_A/N : Warning: Extremely expositional chapter ahead. And fluff. The next chapter will be _packed, _so I figured this one would be excusable._

New York  
Day 2- 3:15 PM  
The Metropolitan Museum of Art

"Well, I think it's safe to say Elliah Johnson didn't kill him."

Don Flack stared down at the body of Donald Sinclair; the deceased man was sprawled on his stomach and a single blade sticking out of his lower back. A butterfly adorned the left side of his face.

"What makes you say that?" Brass glanced at the younger detective next to him.

"If you broke in to kill a man, wouldn't you take your file with you?"

And, indeed, the file of one Elliah Johnson lay feet from the victim, flipped open to the man's picture. Flack though the man looked rather like a rock star-turned-lawyer, rather than an artist.

"So where does this leave us?" Danny stuck his hands in his pockets and stared down at the body, as well.

Aiden joined Danny with her kit in hand, and a defeated look upon her face.

"It leaves us with nothing."

New York  
Day 2- 3:15PM  
NYPD Crime Unit

Mac Taylor, at the last minute, had swung the SUV containing himself, Stella, Grissom, and Catherine around and sped back towards CSI with an idea in his head.

"Mac?" Stella wasn't sure what her normally calm partner was up to. He was driving wildly through the city, flashers spinning and sirens blaring. His eyes were glued to the road.

"Call Danny. Tell him to have someone start background checks on _all _of the victims. I want to know where all of our girls were, from three days right until they day they died."

Stella did as she was told. Danny contacted Calleigh and her group, who phoned Horatio. Horatio phoned Mac. Mac filled the Miami CSI in on his sudden train of thought.

"We need to find the connection," Mac ducked his head. Even as a detective, and member of the NYPD, it was still illegal for him to be driving while on a cell phone.

"Has anyone begun this?" Horatio asked.

"No. Obviously, twelve years ago, we had no way of knowing they were connected until it was too late, and even then it didn't seem necessary to check. We were more concerned about catching this guy, looking for prints, DNA, anything. Can you pull together a team and get on that?"

Horatio said he would, and so Mac disconnected with the reassurance that Calleigh, Nick, Warrick, and Speedle were on their way to help. Mac knew that Aiden and Danny's efforts on the Sinclair murder would bring up next to nothing—but still, he remained hopeful. If this guy slipped up in _some _way…

Stella shot him a look.

"He won't mess up, Mac."

Mac resolved to find out how she always did that.

New York  
Day 2- 5:30 PM  
NYPD Crime Unit

It had been one of the most exhausting days in Horatio Caine's memory. He'd spent the last two and a half hours individually researching the lives of the ten Butterfly women, going through file upon file until his eyes began to cross and he'd had to stop. Now, seated with the fourteen other CSIs, Horatio wished to be back in Miami—sleeping.

Mac could see this. It was nearing the dinner hour, and he hadn't eaten anything since three o'clock. The entire team looked completely wiped—after all, for the Las Vegas group, this was the dead of night for them. He made a decision.

"I think we need to quit for today."

Heads snapped up and eyes darted as the protests began.

"Look!" Mac raised his voice over the chatter, "I know it's early, and I know _all _of you want to keep going, but it's been a long day. Get some rest. With fresh eyes, you won't miss anything."

They quieted. One by one, the CSIs filed out of the office until only Stella remained.

"You, too, Stell." Mac said.

"And what are you going to do?" The curly-haired woman locked eyes with her partner's. "I know you're not quitting this early."

Mac smiled.

"Don't worry about it."

Mac moved around to his desk and pulled out the case files, laying them in front of the computer and seating himself in his chair. He'd just opened the file when a hand came down over the paper.

"Uh, uh. You can't get rid of me that easily." Determined, Stella pulled a chair next to the desk and grabbed one of the files, settling in without a glance at her partner.

Mac just smiled and shook his head.

New York  
Day 3- 12:00 AM  
The Sheraton Hotel, Room 412

Catherine Willows tossed and turned. The sheets of her bed twisted around her body and scrunched around her waist. Her hair flipped across her face. Sweat beaded on her brow and neck. The orbs under lashed eyelids flicked from side to side. The images flashed before her mind.

Screaming, shrieks.

Seas of crimson through weathered hands.

Tracks down the road of a face.

Paint…paint…everywhere…

Her eyes flew open. At first, the surroundings seemed alien, unfamiliar. Her mind tried to focus. Where was she? And who the hell was snoring next to her?

Catherine's shoulders slumped as realization dawned on her. She was in New York, in the room she and Sara were currently sharing. The brunette's soft snores were nails on a chalkboard to Catherine's sharp ears. She pulled a pillow over her head to block out the noise, trying to blink away the images that seemed imprinted in her mind. Was the case getting to her this much? Did it affect her so much that the women, the victims, haunted her dreams? Was she unravelling?

Would Sara _ever _stop snoring?

Sighing, Catherine knew defeat. She untangled herself from the bedding, grabbed the comforter and wrapped it around herself before tip-toeing out of the room and softly clicking the door shut behind her. She glanced down the hall. All was quiet, the Miami and Las Vegas CSIs presumably sleeping, not bothered by dreams of death and destruction.

The door in front of her gleamed oak in the soft light from the hall. Her hand raised to knock.

New York  
Day 3- 12:30 AM  
The Sheraton Hotel, Room 413

Gil Grissom stared at the ceiling of the hotel room he and Greg Sanders were supposed to be sharing. The young CSI had disappeared hours ago to "take in the sights"—Gil told the spiky-haired man that he could bunk with Nick, should he return after eleven.

He'd heard the door of the room next to him open half an hour ago.

Smiling slightly, Gil traced the contours of the ceiling with his eyes. The shape always seemed to form a stunning pair of cerulean eyes, sparkling happily at him from underneath long lashes. He shifted.

A soft knock at the door had him looking up a moment later. It couldn't be Greg. The CSI knew enough to heed to his boss' warning. Gil, overtaken by curiosity, padded to the door and opened it.

"Hi."

The pair of cerulean eyes he'd been dreaming of stared up at him as he came face-to-face with Catherine, clad in a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, her comforter wrapped around her slender frame.

"Hi." He smiled at her. She smiled at him.

Gil stood back and allowed the blue-eyed woman to enter the room, she stopping only briefly to place a hand on his face before moving past him. He touched his cheek.

The door closed.

_A/N: Yeah, this is slooow--don't hurt me! The next chapter will be action-packed, let me assure you. But I sincerely wanted to build up Gil and Cath's relationship. Sooo...review...complain...I've been told this is going too slow--I promise, all in good time! Oh, and huge thanks to my Beta (you know who you are, you monster). The next chapter will be up soon--and by soon, I mean by maybe the next two hours!  
Click the purple button!_


	8. The Scientist

New York  
Day 3- 12:45 AM  
Mac Taylor's apartment

Mac's eyelids were dangerously close to dropping into sleep. He and Stella had stayed at the Lab until nine, finally leaving the cramped office to seek food and a more comfortable place to research. They had found themselves at Mac's apartment not long after.

He'd read every file. Gone through every telephone call. Logged all of the alarm traces. There was nothing to indicate any of the women were connected in any way, shape, or form. Stella had told him to take a break. Maybe he'd rest his eyes for a few moments-- right after he went through the credit card histories. After all, Stella had fallen asleep over forty-five minutes ago, why shouldn't he?

He opened the first file to the list of purchases of the earliest victim. Groceries…car payments…mortgage…gym fees…airline ticket…

Mac froze. Airline ticket? Quickly, he flipped open the next file. Credit card purchases. _Airline, airline…_Mac's head spun as he read the list. _There! American Airlines Flight 272 from White Plains to Las Vegas._

"Stella!" Files became a blur. Mac rifled through every one, highlighting the same purchase as he went. Again and again: American Airlines, American Airlines. They were all the same. Every woman had booked a flight out of her home city and into another.

"What?" Stella came to a groggy focus to see her partner madly glancing back and forth as he lined the floor in front of him with what looked like the credit card statements of the Butterfly victims. "Mac?"

"I found it." He stood and looked down at the yellow lines that indicated the key piece of information he'd been looking for. "I found the connection."

Stella made her way over and flicked her eyes over the sheets. He was right. Sheila McCartney booked her way out of Miami and into Las Vegas; Anya Treeter wanted to escape Las Vegas for the bright lights of New York; Blair Ullta left the Big Apple for Miami warmth. It went on, and on.

"We need to trace these flights," Stella glanced at Mac. "Passenger lists. Attendants. Pilots."

Mac nodded. He pulled his jacket from the couch he'd tossed it on earlier and turned to his partner.

"We're leaving. Now."

Stella wasn't far behind.

New York  
Day 3- 1:00 AM  
The Sheraton Hotel, Room 413

The shrill ringing of the telephone went almost unheard in Gil Grissom's room. Catherine was comfortably curled against her partner, moulded perfectly into him, the curve of her back snuggled into his chest; Grissom's arm was slung protectively around his partner. She'd informed him of her nightmare when she had arrived—he had immediately insisted she stay with him, so he could watch over her. Now, two pairs of blue eyes snapped open as the phone next to them rang insistently. Grissom reached over the strawberry blonde next to him to pick up the troublesome object.

"Grissom."

"Grissom, Caine here. Mac just phoned. He's found the connection between all of our women—airline tickets. Every single on had booked a flight out of their own city and into another."

Grissom untangled himself from Catherine and sat up.

"Has this been researched? Do we know if any of them actually got on their flights?"

"Mac and Stella are on it right now. We're all going to meet back at the lab."

"Okay. I'm on my way."

Grissom began to climb out of the bed when Horatio spoke again.

"Grissom? Make sure Catherine knows, as well. I can't seem to reach her." Grissom glanced at the woman that had fallen back to sleep in the bed.

"Uh, yeah, she's with—I'll let her know."

He could practically hear the Miami CSI grinning as he snapped the phone shut.

New York  
Day 3- 2:00 AM  
NYPD Crime Unit

The NYPD Crime Unit looked strangely dark as the entire team arrived. The halls had taken on a soft blue glow; the light that filtered through the windows was an artificial yellow. Grissom felt strangely at home, amongst the dark of the great city, knowing that this was the time that he thrived best.

Men and women bustled by him at a slow pace. They had dark circles under their eyes, circles he himself knew intimately. They had the graveyard look to them.

"Okay," Flack jogged up beside the group and handed a file to Mac, who was leading. "I got the flight logs. It wasn't easy, either—you owe me," the detective grinned. "Captain Brass is chasing down the flight crew as we speak."

"Good, good."

They—all fifteen CSIs, plus one detective—entered the NYPD Crime Unit's Layout Room and filed around the table, each silent as Mac read through the flight logs.

"It's affirmative," he said, "every woman got on her respective flight. And, according to this, they each got off."

"So," Stella stood next to Mac, reading over his shoulder, "divide and conquer?"

The division was quick. The conquering would take a while.

New York  
Day 3- 3:00 AM  
NYPD SUV

Jim Brass was punching numbers into his cell phone as fast as humanly possible. He'd just attained the warrant for the flight crew information, and was now speeding back toward the NYPD Crime Unit, praying for Gil Grissom to answer his cell.

"Grissom."

"Gil—Jim. I've got it."

"Good. We'll have the airline fax over the information."

"Wait for the warrant, Gil!"

"We can't." Grissom sounded eerily serious. "A dead butterfly is due within ten hours."

New York  
Day 3- 3:15 AM  
NYPD Crime Unit—Layout Room

Bodies flew around the room, bumping into each other and apologizing, moving around case files that littered the floor and table, evidence boxes and bags, and a whole array of objects that Mac Taylor had requested to be brought in. The detective himself was locked in his office, a caged animal while waiting impatiently for the fax from an American Airlines representative. Stella wondered whether or not he'd wear a hole in the floor from all the pacing he was doing.

The fax machine beside the man buzzed and beeped, and a piece of paper was ejected and pulled from the feeder before it had fully finished rolling through the gears.

Mac's eyes scanned the paper, then snatched the next paper that came off the machine. Again and again he did this, until ten faxes had been sent over and Mac's eyes were wider than saucers.

"Gotcha."

He turned, ran to the door. The Layout Room went silent as he arrived.

"Joseph Dalano." He looked up at the assembled group. "American Airlines Pilot since 1992."

Catherine and Grissom watched as Mac flipped through the file feverishly. Catherine spoke.

"Do we know if he's flying out today?"

A tense silence surrounded the group. Mac continued to literally rip through the papers in search of the Pilot's schedule. Horatio's frown was prominent. Grissom's arms were crossed. Stella's hands were thrust in her pockets to stop herself was fidgeting. Catherine's hand ran through her hair frustratingly. Calleigh's foot tapped lightly on the floor.

Mac's face was stony as he met the eyes of the team surrounding him.

At once, six pairs of feet turned and began to run toward the door.

"Hey!" Eric Delko shouted after the retreating supervisors and their right hands, "Where're you guys going?"

Mac's head turned to yell over his shoulder.

"To catch a plane!"

_A/N: So, this is me hoping that this chapter was more satisfactory for those of you hoping for a faster pace. MANY thanks to _DrusillaBraun _for your awesome reviews, which are a pleasure to get in my inbox and always very inspiring. And lurkers ('cause I know you're there!), take five seconds, leave a review. I really do listen to every one and try to accommodate all of your suggestions._

_Click the purple button!_


	9. I Don't Wanna Miss A Thing

United Airlines Flight 1542 to Miami  
Day3- 5:00 AM  
Passenger Cabin

The cabin of United Airlines Flight 1542 to Miami was stuffy and stale. Catherine really couldn't think of any other more descriptive words than that. It once again reminded her of how much she loved and loathed to fly—but that could wait for another time to elaborate on. Mac was pulling a file bearing the NYPD logo from the briefcase, and she focused her attention on him.

"Let's talk this out," Mac flipped the tray table in front of him down and placed the folder on it. "Last week, American Airlines overhauled their flight plans and rearranged the schedules and flight times of all of their employees, including Joseph Dalano. Instead of flying out of Miami at the beginning of the week, he starts in New York."

"Wait, wait," Stella's eyes narrowed, "that murderer has been in New York the whole damn time?"

"Yes. He flew in yesterday morning-on flight 1845." Mac's voice faltered. He glanced over at Grissom and Catherine, seated together next to Stella. Both of their faces betrayed their evident shock. "He was your pilot out of Miami. It explains how Donald Sinclair wound up dead, of course. Dalano got wind of the investigation and decided to end whatever connections he had to the Met, and the robbery he committed there."

Horatio, on Mac's left, frowned.

"We may be able to catch him," he said, "if we get to Miami before he does. His kidnap victim from New York must be dead by now, but who's to say that we can't get to him first?"

"Our chances of catching him in the airport are slim, H," Calleigh said. "He'll recognize us."

Stella smiled secretly to herself.

"He'll recognize you, that's true." She shot a look at Mac. "But he sure as hell won't recognize _us._"

They fell quiet. The fate of another woman now rested solely in their hands.

It was really too bad they had no clue what to do next.

Raleigh, North Carolina  
Day 3- 5:45 AM  
Raleigh-Durham International Airport

In all of his years, Gil Grissom had never been re-routed on a flight before. Never. He'd never really thought about the possibility of a storm brewing off the coast, or that said storm could potentially throw a wrench in their now carefully thought-out plans. Dalano would leave New York fifteen minutes from the time posted on the Departures screen, and the time frame they now possessed was slowly shrinking into oblivion.

More reason, he decided, to never rely on luck.

"Now what?" Catherine joined him in gazing up at the Departures schedule.

"There." Grissom pointed to the screen. "Flight 182. Six-thirty. We can still make it."

Catherine turned and jogged back to join Stella at the check-in desk. Horatio and Calleigh joined them, Mac and Grissom bringing up the rear.

"Hi, welcome to United Airlines. How may I help you?" The man behind the desk was balding, plump, with square glasses that looked in danger of slipping down his nose and a nametag that bore the name 'Frank'.

"Hi, Frank," Stella flashed a dazzling smile at the employee. _What a time to turn on the charm, _Mac mused. "My friends and I need six tickets to Miami on the six-thirty flight. Think you could help us out with that?"

Frank smiled and turned to the computer, punching keys in on the old computer. Stella could see the green text reflected in his glasses.

"I'm sorry. All we have are four first class tickets."

Stella felt her heart sink. They'd come all this way—and for what? All six of them needed to go. Not two, not four-six. All or nothing. They had made a vow when the teams had converged to stick together—she would stick to that promise. Stella was not a woman to go back on her word.

"Frank," Calleigh came up to the counter, accent soothing the flustered agent (the look on Stella's face had made his own face fall), "are you _sure _you can't squeeze us in?"

The man looked like he was seriously considering for a moment, the battle raging in his head whether or not to try and fit in the clearly desperate-but-holding-it-together people in front of him. He shook his head.

"I'm sorry, m'am," he sighed, "there's just no room."

Inside Catherine's own mind, another war was waging. The decision had to be made fast, ID or not. If they flashed the badges, there was a chance, however remote, that Dalano may hear of it and make a run for it. Now, or never.

"But," Catherine leaned into Gil, nudging her partner in the ribs to play along, "Frank, we just got married. _All _of us." Catherine trod pointedly on Stella's heeled toes. The curly haired woman cottoned on to the Vegas CSI's train of thought and quickly slipped her arm around Mac's waist.

"Yes," she grinned as Mac's arm slipped around her own waist, "we did. In New York. We have our whole trip planned out for Miami."

Calleigh jumped on the bandwagon as well and pulled Horatio's hand into hers, "So, please, Frank—check one more time?"

Frank exhaled slowly, taking in the group of 'newlyweds' in front of him.

"Well…we _do _two seats that haven't been accounted for since they were reserved…"

"Perfect!" Catherine grinned at the obviously pleased man. "We'll take them—and make it quick, will you, Frank? We simply can't afford to miss this flight!"

Miami  
Day 3- 7:30 AM  
Miami International Airport (MIA)

Horatio had known that the moment the group stepped off the plane, they would hit a crowd they could potentially lose Dalano in. Crowds were inevitable in Miami. They didn't bother Horatio—usually; today was an exception.

Today, they would catch a murderer.

"Shall we see which time out future little jailbird gets in?" Stella suggested. Mac agreed, and so she pulled him by the hand over to the Arrivals Information while Grissom, Catherine, Horatio, and Calleigh waited.

_They could be married, _Catherine mused. Gil, unbeknownst to her, was thinking the same thing.

The two's hands remained joined from when they'd left the plane, putting on the façade of newlyweds as well as the two 'couples' they were traveling with. Truth be told, neither Gil nor Catherine minded in the slightest. Catherine had the distinct feeling that Mac didn't mind being pulled around by his partner, either.

"Half an hour, according to the board, but one of the agents said the plane caught a pretty good tailwind, so it may be earlier than that," Stella informed them. "Looks like we won't have to wait long."

"Should we get airport security involved?" Horatio questioned.

"No," Mac said, "it's our case, therefore it's fully within our rights to make the arrest. I had Flack alert security—just in case. But it's doubtful we'll need it."

They nodded, and the group of supposed honeymooners made their way over the gate number Mac supplied. Catherine spotted a Starbucks tucked among the gift shops and magazine racks.

"Thank God," she tugged Gil's hand to get his attention. "I'm going to go grab a coffee. Anyone else want anything?"

"I'll go with you," Stella said, "I need mints."

Mac looked amused at the comment before declining the offer. Grissom asked Catherine to get him a coffee, while Horatio requested a water and Calleigh opted to join the two women.

The men watched their partners enter the store, then lost sight if them.

"Okay…two tall Caramel Macchiato, one regular Black, one Frappucino-tall, and one bottle of water, if you would be so kind." Stella ordered while Catherine wandered around the back to fetch the drinks. Calleigh placed two tins of mints on the counter.

"Almost as good as a toothbrush."

They waited. After a few minutes, in which the drinks and coffee they ordered had not appeared, Stella made her way to the side of the counter and to the back, where the strawberry blonde CSI had gone to wait.

Catherine's gun and ID were lay on the floor.

The coffee had been spilled.

And the woman was nowhere to be seen.

Stella raced back around the counter, past Calleigh, and into the crowd. Her hand rested on her gun.

"Mac!"

Mac jogged his way over to the store, a curious Grissom and Horatio following.

"Stella?"

Stella's eyes continued to search the gates, even as Mac looked concernedly at his partner. Calleigh was behind her, her own hand on her gun; Horatio read what had happened in the blonde's eyes.

"Stella…" Mac said.

"Where is she?" Grissom stared hard at Stella. His eyes were slowly betraying the fear he felt as the situation pieced itself together in his mind. He stepped forward. "Stella, _where is Catherine?_"

The woman exhaled slowly and met Grissom's stare.

"She's gone."

_A/N: Man alive! Five pages! So I know quite a few of you predicted/suggested this, which was interesting, considering it really had been my intent when I started this little project for Catherine to be the one to disappear—such smart readers! Many thanks to _future copMarciaG_ (that's awesome…thanks so much! But I'm pretty sure the writers are better than I am—after all, _they _get to play with these characters everyday, and it's canon!), _rojaji_ (I, too, have had the gyros—they were so, _so_ good! Not in the same place, of course, but there you go. Oh, and yes, Aiden is a woman, and Stella is indeed played by Melina Kanakaredes, who was on _Providencehiril en galad_, Daya (Cheers for leaving the review!) and of course, DrusillaBraun for you ever-reliable reviews. Let me know what you think! _

_Click the purple button! _


	10. Iris

Miami  
Day 3- 7:45 AM  
Miami International Airport (MIA)

The world rushed past Gil. His brain was in a fog; had Stella just said Catherine was gone? That couldn't be right—he was just with her, wasn't he? He'd watched her walk over to the Starbucks with Stella and Calleigh moments before. She'd turned and smiled her Cheshire-like smile she reserved only for him-she'd stayed with him last night, for God's sake! She'd hidden from her nightmares in his room! She'd even told a flight agent she'd never seen before in her life that they were married!

_Slow down, _he thought to himself. Stella was leading him over to one of the chairs outside the gate, speaking words to him that never made it to his ears. Catherine was gone. It seemed impossible, ridiculous even, for the notion to be true. Gil had watched her the whole time. Made sure he knew where she was, what she was doing.

"Grissom." Stella's voice penetrated his thoughts. "Grissom, talk to me."

He shook his head a little. The fog began to recede, only to be replaced immediately with panic. They had to find her! Catherine!

"Stella," Gil finally saw the curly-haired woman in front of him, "did you see her leave? Did you see anything?"

Stella sighed and shook her head. Her curls bounced off her shoulders. With a pang, Gil remembered the same move Catherine had made when they had worked the strange case of a plushie convention and a dead 'racoon'.

"No. It all happened so fast, Grissom. I couldn't see her from where I was. It was crowded."

"Okay."

Gil stood and crossed the throng of people being sheparded by security guards and made his way to the back of the coffee shop, where Calleigh was crouched with Horatio and Mac.

"There's no way to tell how he did this," Mac was saying, "but my best guess? He had her at gunpoint. Threatened her."

"Oh, likely," Calleigh said. A security guard came up to the group and placed three crime scene kits next to them, then took the three remaining from the guard behind him and added them to the pile, too.

"Figured you guys would need these. Found them at the baggage carousel."

"Thanks." Horatio pulled his kit over and began to collect the gun and ID for printing.

Gil retrieved his own kit. He was about to open it, when the corner of what looked like a piece of paper caught his eyes, wedged in the opening crease of the silver case.

Stella leaned over Grissom's shoulder to see what he was staring at.

"Problem?"

"Could I borrow a pair of gloves and tweezers, please?" Gil's eyes never left the paper.

Puzzled, Stella obliged, and soon Grissom was easing the paper out of the kit. It was folded, and when freed, a picture fell out from between its walls.

Gil picked it up.

Catherine was smiling softly at the him in the photo, her hand closely entwined in his while they waited to board their flight just hours before at the Raleigh-Durham airport.

"How—what?" Stella fought for words. "There's no way."

"Apparently," Horatio said, joining the two in gazing at the picture, "there is."

Gil shook his head.

"He's just toying with us. It's nothing more than a scare tactic. Not important."

Horatio stared at the man.

"I think this may be important, Grissom." Horatio said.

"No, it's not," Gil snapped, "_Finding Catherine _is important."

Miami  
Day 3- 8:30AM  
Miami Dade County Crime Lab

Stella had never been in the MDPD Crime Lab before; the high glass walls lit with a soft orange and yellow glow reminded her of Mac's office at sundown. What was different, she thought, was the relaxed manner that ran through the lab—she supposed it was a reflection of the kind of people that inhabited Miami. It certainly reminded her of Horatio, at any rate.

The man himself was currently leading the group of CSIs—now down to five—into the Layout Room. The evidence they had collected at the scene had been packaged and delivered straight to the room for processing.

"We're pushing the clock now," Horatio said, placing himself next to Calleigh at the illuminated table. "We have maybe eight hours to find Catherine. After that…" He trailed off.

"Well, let's find her now." Stella leaned forward onto the table and snatched the bag containing video surveillance from the gate and shops Catherine had disappeared from. She turned to Grissom. "Why don't you and I go over this?"

The quiet man stared at her like she was from another planet.

"You know her. If anyone can pick her out from a crowd, it's you."

Grissom considered for a moment before trailing after the curly-haired New Yorker, mind on his partner.

"Right. Let's get to work."

Miami  
Day 3- 8:45AM  
MDPD Crime Lab A/V Department  
1 Hour and 15 Minutes since Catherine's kidnapping

Though he hadn't slept, eaten, or thought about anything but his partner since her kidnapping, Gil Grissom took a moment to observe how bizarre it was to watch himself on tape. The him moving around the Miami airport had just departed from Catherine and taken a seat next to Mac and Horatio at the gate, while the tiny Catherine, Calleigh, and Stella disappeared off the screen.

"Freeze it."

Stella hit 'Pause'.

"Continue in slow-motion."

The screen crawled forward. Grissom leaned in, nose inches from the scene. He spotted a flash of strawberry blonde hair turning the corner and disappearing from sight.

"There!"

Stella re-wound the footage and watched as Catherine exited the shop, hidden from sight by the stature of the man accompanying her; Grissom spotted the odd angle the man's arm was at and guessed he was clutching a gun to her side.

"She went right by me," he sat back in his chair and removed his glasses, the bridge of his nose pinched moments later in frustration. "I was right there and I never saw her."

Stella's mouth twitched to the side in a sad smile. She laid a hand on his arm.

"There was nothing any of us could have done. He took her at gunpoint. But what we _can _do is find her—and we will."

Gil nodded. Next to him, Stella's cell began to ring. To give her some privacy, and to continue to trace and re-trace his missing partner's footsteps, Gil pulled himself up to the computer console to view the tape again.

"Bonasera."

"Stell, it's me. We have some information."

Grissom zoomed in on the two people slipping out of the shop. Catherine, her face fuzzy at best, was obviously keeping still to avoid her attacker's potential hot-under-the-collar attitude. Her gun holster was empty.

"What kind of information?"

Her ID clip was missing from her belt loop.

"We've been examining the picture that our kidnapper left in Grissom's kit."

Grissom zoomed in further on his partner.

"And?"

His eyes widened.

"I think we may have a way to contact Dalano and Catherine."

The odds of Dalano missing what stuck out of Catherine's pocket were minimal.

"How, Mac?"

Gil stared down at his cell phone that had made it to his hand. He spoke at the same time Mac, on the other line, did.

"Catherine's cell phone is in her pocket."

The group joined together in the A/V Lab seconds later. Their path to finding Catherine was finally starting to look like the Yellow Brick Road.

Grissom had a feeling they would need more than a pair of ruby slippers to help them.

_A/N:_ _So I know this took a little while, but life got a little crazy in the past two weeks—finals and projects and work, oh my! Many, many apologies, but I do know that since Christmas break is almost upon us (well, me, at least), this will (hopefully) be finished by January! Yay! And once again, a Thank You must be bestowed on my lovely reviewers, who always make me smile and who are inspiring every time._

_Click the purple button!_


	11. Rescue Me

Miami  
Day 3-8:45 AM  
Abandoned Air Hanger

It was dark. The air that surrounded her was stale and moist at the same time; her breathing was laboured from the oppressiveness of the room. Her hands were bound behind her, her feet were bound in front. Her hair was matted and dirty. She knew her make-up had run and smudged from the tears that would no longer fall. And she ached everywhere.

Catherine wondered whether she would ever be found. Her kidnapper (in the back of her brain she registered that she knew his name, but could not for the life of her remember it) had left her here what seemed like hours ago. Her throat felt like it had been force-fed acid from all of the screaming she'd done, and yet no-one had heard her. Oh, she knew that _he _could hear her, whoever _he _was (why couldn't she remember his name?)—but there was no doubt in her mind that her kidnapper was pointedly ignoring her.

Somewhere in her scientific mind, Catherine registered that she had not had anything to eator drink for hours. She knew that she had a mere seventy-hours before her body would slowly begin to shut down from lack of water, then begin to digest itself from the inside out. It was funny-she could remember that, but not the name of the man that held her prisoner. How many hours had she been here, anyway? Was she already going crazy from the lack of nutrients?

She mulled over that for a while. And prayed that someone, _anyone, _would find her.

Miami  
Day 3-9:00 AM  
MDPD Crime Lab-A/V Lab

Gil's cell phone sat hooked up to a series of machines he normally would know the name of—the problem being, he registered, that he really didn't care. All he wanted to do was snatch the phone up and hear the sound of Catherine's voice.

"Okay, we'll have to be careful about this." Horatio sat down at the computer consol and punched in a series of numbers into the keyboard. "Grissom, I hate to do this, but you'll have to stay off that phone. Stella is going to make the call."

Gil stared at the red-haired lieutenant like he was crazy.

"Excuse me?"

"You're too unstable to do this, Grissom," Stella laid a hand on his now shaking arm, "And Dalano may react to you. Let a woman handle this, okay?"

Grissom nodded. Stella glanced at Horatio.

"Ready?"

Horatio nodded, and Stella picked up the cell. She flipped through the speed dial until she landed on Catherine's number.

It rang once.

No answer.

Twice.

Still nothing.

Three times.

"I wondered when you would call."

Joseph Dalano's voice filtered through the phone and into Stella's ears.

"Mr. Dalano, this is Stella Bonasera. NYPD."

On the screen, Stella could see the GPS on the phone begin to connect with the computer.

"Network connecting." Horatio whispered.

"Ah, Detective Bonasera. I had the pleasure of flying you and your crew to Miami. You have the most stunning green eyes."

"Stall him." Horatio said. Stella nodded.

"Did you? I thought you were an American Airlines pilot."

She could nearly hear Dalano smiling over the phone.

"I am. But I couldn't resist when I saw three beautiful women trying to get to me, you see. So I made sure I was flying that plane. Pity I didn't get to meet you."

"Yes, Mr. Dalano, it was a tragedy, I'm sure. But you know, I think we could arrange to meet."

"Could we now?"

"Oh, yes. You see, you happen to have a friend of mine with you, and I'd really love to have her back." Stella watched as the area narrowed on the screen to a four-block radius.

"Oh, I don't think so, Detective. I rather like this one. I spotted her all those years ago in Las Vegas, while she investigated one of my pieces of art. Her hair is longer now."

"Well, Mr Dalano, perhaps we can strike a deal with you."

The search area narrowed to two blocks.

"I'm afraid not, Detective Bonasera. You see, I have an extremely beautiful woman sitting in front of me and little time to create my masterpiece. Your GPS should have nearly located me by now." Dalano sounded smug. "See you soon, Detective."

Stella heard dial tone.

Miami  
Day 3-9:30 AM  
Abandoned Air Hanger

Catherine had always assumed that the man in front of her painted his victims after he murdered them. Now, standing bound in front of him, she realized her assumption was wrong.

Dalano was demanding her co-operation in stripping her down.

"Stay still."

Her mind forced himself to concentrate on anything and everything but the man slowly cutting the clothing off her body. Her thoughts found her partner-was he looking for her? Or was he resigned to the fact that she would be dead by the end of the day? She shuddered. Dalano's shears were cold against her now exposed torso; the steel reminded her of the autopsy tables in Doc's Morgue. She'd never get to see him again, or the Lab, never get to return to her home—never get to see her daughter again. Tears ran silently down her cheeks, tears that she had sworn she'd run out of hours ago. Lindsey's face swam in front of her blurry vision-was she alright? Did she know of her mother's kidnapping? Catherine prayed that Gil would be the one to tell her of her mother's death, be there for the little girl that had called him 'Uncle' since the day she could speak. Gil had been shocked when the then two year old had spouted the phrase 'Uncle Gil' one day while they were sitting together at the breakfast table, while Catherine prepared breakfast. She'd invited him over after their shift. Eddie wasn't home; Catherine didn't care either way whether or not her husband was present. The man had always been jealous of Gil, for reasons unknown to both Gil and Catherine, but Catherine suspected it was Gil's ability to know exactly was she was thinking, no matter where, no matter when. They didn't always tell each other everything—some of the secrets were too painful for either of them to hear—but they had always supported each other, through thick and thin.

Well, it was the latter now, and Catherine, now standing in nothing but her undergarments, never needed Gil more in her life than she did then.

"He'll find me," she braved talking. The man chuckled amusedly while dipping a paintbrush into one of the trays sitting in front of him.

"That's very idealistic, my dear. However, they have little to go on. This whole neighbourhood is nothing but old warehouses and air hangers, and we're in a sealed security room. But I like that fight in you," she stood and stroked her face with calloused hands. Catherine snapped her head away.

He smiled, unfazed, and strode over to a set of chains dangling from the ceiling.

"Do you know what I love about the human body, my dear? It's the perfect canvas—contours to dream of. But the only way to create my art," he rattled one of the chains, "is to make sure I have a three-hundred and sixty degree view."

Catherine's eyes hardened.

"I'm not going to be one of your little projects. You can't just string me up like some sick puppet and expect me not to fight."

"You're not fighting now."

"I haven't figured out how best to spill your blood yet."

His smile took on a maniacal tinge.

"But I know just how to spill yours, my dear."

The only thing that Catherine thought of before the blackness was how badly she had let her best friend down.

Two blocks away, Gil Grissom was thinking the same thing.


	12. Holding Out For A Hero

_A/N: Warning: Here be violence. If you don't think you can handle the M rating, I suggest you turn back while you can. But, if you can handle it, then here it is: THE chapter. Read on!_

Miami  
Day 3- 9:30 AM  
MIA Air Hanger Lot

Hummers, police cars, detective vehicles, two vans along with two ambulances and one fire truck, sped through Miami at a speed Horatio Caine considered to be a new record. He sat behind the wheel of his own Hummer; Calleigh and Stella brought up the rear in Calleigh's own gigantic-monster-of-a-vehicle. Gil rode with Horatio.

The block they entered was dilapidated, to say the least. Old warehouses lined cobbled streets and broken-down air hangers sat flat in the middle of the road. Gil supposed the side roads must have been used to navigate the giant area.

"CSI, this is SWAT. Requesting plan of action."

Horatio picked up the radio next to him while speeding through the street.

"SWAT, stand down. Plan of action undetermined until target is located." He threw the radio down and brought the Hummer to a halt outside what looked to be the main building. He pulled out his cell phone.

"Calleigh, I need you to get out the thermal-imaging camera and hook it up right away. We're going to cover this entire area until we find Catherine."

Miami  
Day 3- 9:45 AM  
Abandoned Air Hanger

Catherine had a headache the size of Texas.

Having just woken up, this was one of the first things that she registered as she took in her surroundings--the second thing that she felt was blinding pain throughout her whole body. Looking up, Catherine saw that she was dangling three feet above the ground, held up by a pair of chains running from the ceiling and around her bleeding wrists. She held in the impulse to vomit.

Dalano had indeed nearly accomplished what she had sworn she would not let him do. Her body had been turned into the right wing of a butterfly. And Catherine was mad.

"Let me down."

Dalano looked up, clearly previously unaware of his victim's return to consciousness.

"Have patience, my dear. You're not quite done yet."

To Catherine's horror, she saw that Dalano had completely stripped her naked and was now moving down her legs to apply the rest of the paint. She struggled. The chains raked down on her arms.

"Please," she begged, "please, don't. Let me down."

Dalano looked amusedly up at her.

"I said I was almost done. Now, have a little patience, my butterfly."

Catherine could feel the anger flare through her entire body. The only man that had ever called her 'Butterfly' had been Gil—it was his nickname for Lindsey, too. He had called her that the day she was born.

"Don't."

Dalano ignored her. He continued to apply the light blue paint to Catherine's dangling legs.

Dangling legs?

Catherine mustered up as much energy as she could and swung one of her legs at Dalano. She hit him straight in the jaw and he fell like a wounded animal, hand clutched to his face as Catherine struggled to free herself from her chains.

"Help!" She screamed as loud as she possibly could. "Help!"

Dalano lunged at her with an animalistic look in his eyes and slapped her painted face.

"Shut up!" He hissed, slapping her again. "Shut up, shut _up_!"

Catherine flinched and fought and kicked at him again, struggling, trying to fend off the man that was rapidly causing blood to pour from her lips and cheeks. Tears slipped down her face.

"You little bitch," Dalano hissed, "you little _bitch. _I waited twelve years to get my time with you, and what do I get? Lip! You should be thanking me on _bended knee _for taking you away from all of those fiends you call friends. They never appreciated you. Never appreciated your beauty. But me?" He calmed, stroking her face with the backs of his fingers. "Me? I see you. And you're mine now."

"I'm not," Catherine spat blood in his face.

Dalano fingered the chains that encompassed her wrists.

"You are."

Miami  
Day 3- 10:00 AM  
MIA Air Hanger Lot

They'd spent the last half-hour moving in and out of the entire warehouse area, aiming the TIC at every building, every room. They'd had no luck whatsoever.

"This is ridiculous." Calleigh let the camera drop to her side. "We've scanned everything. She's not here."

"She is." Gil spoke while pacing in front of the Hummer. "She is. I can feel it."

Horatio shot the man a look over the tops of his sunglasses. Gil ignored him.

"Look, Grissom," Stella stepped forward, "I know that you think you know she's here, but…that's not exactly—"

"Scientific?" Mac suggested. "You may be off on that, Stell."

She glanced at him.

"What?"

"I can usually tell when you're in a room or not. It comes with working with someone for so long—you get to know their presence. And if Grissom can feel Catherine, then I say that she's here." Mac shrugged. "So, let's find her."

They all looked at one another before silently deciding to split up. Calleigh went with Gil, while Stella and Mac wound around the back of the lot and Horatio teamed with Detective Frank Tripp to have the rest of the search team spread out.

Gil and Calleigh explored the edge of the lot. Together, they covered half of the area before Calleigh froze.

"Did you hear that?"

"Hear wh—" Calleigh shushed Gil with a wave of her hand and cocked her head toward the closest bunker. She could faintly hear what sounded like a woman yelling.

"Catherine."

Miami  
Day 3- 10:00 AM  
Abandoned Air Hanger

Dalano stared hard at Catherine as he unchained her from the ceiling. Her wrists were bleeding freely, running down her painted arms and leaking down her neck.

"Now," he said, binding her wrists once again while she fought to scratch him, "I believe you know what my agenda is, my butterfly. Promise you'll behave?"

Catherine spit blood in his face again.

"I like that passion," Dalano yanked Catherine's body up from the ground and threw her onto a dirty cot nearby. He hovered above her. "The others had given up by now. Except for the cop." His eyes roamed her painted form. "She was a spitfire, that one."

"I'll bet," Catherine's teeth gritted. Her entire mouth tasted of blood, and when Dalano bent to kiss her, she bit his lip. More blood filled her mouth.

"Now, now, my dear," Dalano wiped his blood from the side of her mouth, "that just won't do."

Catherine's skin burned from where he touched her. Though she was covered in a layer of paint, she still felt the callous feel of his hands as he pinned her to the cot. She once again found herself fighting the urge to throw up.

"Let me go!" She shrieked, writhing beneath his hold on her. She couldn't move her legs, but her hands, though bound, were free to bring themselves down on his head. He growled and grabbed her throat.

"Keep still, you little whore." He released her neck, and Catherine felt oxygen enter her lungs again.

"Let-" She hit him on his jaw. "Me-" She bit his neck until she tasted blood. "_Go!_" She scratched his face, her nails gathering his skin beneath themselves.

Dalano, as though from nowhere, brought a knife up to her throat—she froze.

"What did I tell you?" He smiled. "Keep still."

Catherine screamed.

Miami  
Day 3- 10:10 AM  
MIA Air Hanger Block

Gil and Calleigh ran as fast as they could toward the sound of Catherine's screams. Calleigh was shouting into her walkie-talkie.

"Horatio! Call SWAT! We've got her—an old air hanger. We're in the North-West quadrant!"

The Thermal Imaging Camera revealed two forms, one pinned under another, the one in control holding something to the pinned one's throat as he hastily fumbled with his clothing. Gil removed his gun from his holster.

Within seconds, SWAT and the MDPD had surrounded the building, and the five CSIs that had been so determined to find their sixth grouped together at the back entrance.

"Move! Move!" Horatio yelled, and, as one, they swarmed the hanger.

Catherine's screaming had stopped. Gil, gun drawn, moved with Stella, Horatio, Mac, and Calleigh to the small cot where Dalano was crushing his partner. Dalano held a knife to Catherine's throat.

"I'll do it," he said, voice completely calm, "I'll slice her. Don't come any closer."

The group watched as Dalano dragged a battered Catherine off the cot and against the wall, knife to her painted body. Gil could see the blood creeping down from her mouth, forehead, wrists, neck. She wasn't moving.

"Freeze," Horatio's gun, along with the others, was pointed straight at Dalano. "Freeze, you dirtbag."

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you, Lieutenant," Dalano smiled. "Or you may find my knife just _slips,_" the knife skated across the surface of Catherine's neck, teasingly, "over her flesh. You wouldn't want to be responsible for that, would you?"

Horatio remained unwavering. Gil could feel his blood boiling through his veins.

"No?" Dalano shrugged. "Have it your way, then."

He angled his arm to cut the life away from Catherine for mere seconds before air entered the hole in his forehead from Gil's gun. Four more holes had joined, entering his chest—just in case, the others would later say.

Gil launched himself across the cot and over to Catherine before she hit the ground. Dalano lay a few feet away.

"Cath?" He lowered himself to his knees and rested her in his arms, "Catherine. Cath, talk to me."

Her pulse was faint. Gil could feel it through the point on her neck.

The group waited.

"Catherine," Gil's voice, ever steady since the woman in his arms had disappeared, now cracked. "Cath, please, honey, wake up."

He blinked his eyes to fight back the tears that angrily stung at his corneas.

She moved.

"Gil," Catherine's voice was hoarse. She reached a hand up and rested it on his cheek, as she had done so many times before, and softly wiped a tear that had trailed down to his beard with her thumb. "I knew you'd find me."

Her body went limp.

"Catherine!"

_A/N: Oodles and oodles of thanks go out to all of my reviewers. You know I love you all! This chapter was really hard to write, so if you like it, hated it, whatever, tell me. I really do love reviews. They make me happy. They're almost as good as chocolate—almost. I'd also like to say that this is, unfortunately, one of the last chapters of this story. I've had a complete blast writing it, and I thank all of you who supported me and encouraged me to continue. So, without further ado…_

_Click the purple button!_


	13. Scar Tissue

Miami  
Day 3- 10:30 AM  
Jackson Memorial Hospital

The Emergency ward of the Jackson Memorial Hospital buzzed with men and women dressed in hospital scrubs and coats, while patients awaiting treatment lined the walls and plastic chairs and impatiently watched as the others around them were admitted into the next ward. Some had minor injuries—a woman sitting down the hall in one of the blue chairs clutched her son's hand, while he cradled a sprained wrist—while others had more serious ones—a man that was currently being treated by one of the nurses had a blade sticking out of his thigh. The staff on duty had certainly seen their share of strange injuries and ailments of the people of Miami-Dade, that was indisputable, but the team of M.E.s that came flying through the front double doors of the Ward with a gurney speeding next to them was one they would talk about for the months to come.

A woman, painted completely from head to toe as what the staff assumed was a butterfly, lay atop the gurney, flanked by numerous emergency workers, an entire SWAT team, a fleet of MDPD police officers, and five CSIs. They were halted at the doors—only the gurney and workers were allowed to continue. The staring crowd could clearly see the man that had been clutching the woman's hand seconds before was ready to either battle his way in, or collapse from exhaustion. He was sharply reprimanded by one of the doctors and ordered to stay in the waiting room.

Gil was infuriated. He'd been reunited with his partner only to be ripped apart again by a little man in a white lab coat. He was seriously considering hitting the doctor.

"Look, that's my partner in there!" Gil shouted.

"I'm sorry, sir, but you have to stay here. No one is permitted in the ER but our staff."

Gil's eyes widened with rage.

"I don't care about your damn rules!" He looked ready to kill. "I care about Catherine! I have to be in there!"

Stella approached the pair and gently placed a hand on Gil's tense arm.

"Gil, we want to be in there as much as you do," her voice was soothing to his ears, "but the best thing for Catherine is to let the doctors do their jobs. Okay?"

The doctor in front of them looked gratefully at Stella before slipping away. Stella herself steered Gil forcibly to a room off of the ER where the others had queued, where Horatio took Gil from Stella and sat him down. Gil dipped his head into his hands; his elbows rested on his knees. The world faded away.

It would remain that way for the next six hours.

Miami  
Day 3- 4:30 PM  
Jackson Memorial Hospital

_I. Need. Coffee._

Mac Taylor's mind kept repeating this phrase over and over as he sat in one of the smaller waiting rooms with the others. He hadn't slept in two days. Ever since the teams had arrived that fated morning, in fact. His body felt it would collapse in exhaustion.

As if reading his mind, Stella, having woken from a catnap and wandered down the hospital cafeteria, handed Mac a steaming cup of coffee. He gratefully took it from her and promptly downed half of it. Stella smirked as his eyes went wide as he realized he'd completely burned his throat.

"You never even gave me a chance to warn you," She laughed. Horatio, next to him, wordlessly handed Mac a glass of water. He downed it as fast as the coffee, and sighed in relief. Calleigh chuckled.

"Nice, Mac. Very nice."

The group remained in quiet conversation as the hours drove on. Gil had periodically risen to check in with the occasional doctor—they'd told him the same thing every time.

"She's in surgery. Our doctors are doing all they can. It would be best for you to go home, take a shower, sleep, and come back."

But, of course, Gil ignored these words of advice and forced his body back to the waiting room. The other four had fallen asleep randomly throughout the day, waking to inquire to Gil as to updates on Catherine's condition, then talking with the others who where awake until another fell asleep again. The cycle continued.

At six o' clock, a doctor came in to tell the group that the necessary surgeries had been a success. Catherine was in post and would remain under the hospital's supervision for at least the next twenty-four hours; Gil laughed in relief.

"Can I see her?"

"I'm afraid that would be inadvisable at this time. She's extremely delicate right now—why don't you go home, get some rest—"

Gil stopped listening after that. He turned and sat back down.

Horatio thanked the doctor and sat down next to Gil, fiddling with his sunglasses.

"Grissom, I know this is hard, but perhaps if you left for a little while, got some shut-eye—I have a spare bedroom at my place. It'll do you some good."

"I don't need some _shut eye,_" Gil stared at the red-haired man in front of him. "I need to see Catherine. I need to know she's okay."

Mac felt a great wave of sympathy wash over his body as he watched Gil struggle. He knew what it was like to lose someone, to want to see them so badly it hurt, to want to touch them, if only to understand. He'd never gotten the opportunity to do that four years ago. His wife had died without Mac ever knowing the feel of Claire's hand in his one last time, or to hear her voice filled with laughter bid him farewell as she left their home for the day. That day, he'd never said goodbye. He still hadn't.

"Is there any possible way we could perhaps _sneak _Dr. Grissom in to see his partner?" Mac addressed the doctor. The man's ears perked up at the title.

"Doctor, you say?" He studied Gil carefully before giving a little nod of his head. "I'll see what I can do."

Gil looked up, astonished, as the doctor left the room to fetch one of the nurses. Mac smiled slightly at the relief that was evident on Gil's face.

"I would have wanted the same thing."

Gil thanked him with his eyes.

Miami  
Day 3- 5:00 PM  
Jackson Memorial Hospital

A single pane of glass separated New York and Miami from Las Vegas. Four gazed on while two struggled—both emotionally and physically—to continue. And, while the two men and two women observing appeared calm and cool, internally their bodies waged a war between the respective minds and hearts to decide if it was wise to intervene.

Mac didn't want to. Morally, anyway. He recognized an unbreakable bond when he saw one. But ethically…it was a delicate situation, to say the least. He could see how much they cared for each other, protected one another, yet never crossed that precious line that had been toed once or twice. Or so he guessed. Mac would have been lying if he had said that he himself had never felt the emotions the two in front of him did that he tried so hard to repress.

Catherine's hair was brushed back from her face as Gil's hand moved it away. He couldn't believe that she was still a human mural. The supposition was that the doctors obviously hadn't found that as a high priority, their only goal to tend to Catherine as quickly as possible, but still…

She hadn't awoken or moved since he had taken up residence at her side. Gil knew that she could hear the words he whispered into her ear—more to let her know he was there, than anything else. He told her of their friendship, how they met, how beautiful he had thought she'd looked, how much she struck him as more than a woman who wrapped herself around a pole for a living. He spoke to her of Lindsey, of Eddie, of how he regretted never telling her about her husband's infidelities; he even spoke of how sorry he was of his actions when Eddie had died. He hadn't been there when she needed him most. He hadn't taken the time to stop and really ask her if she was okay, even though he knew full well she wouldn't be, but it was the proper thing to do, wasn't it? And when she would say "Fine", he would know that she wasn't, and would likely call her on it. And she would tell him the truth.

But he didn't do that. He didn't support her when she found out she had a murderer for a father, either. He'd covered for her, yes, but it wasn't like he went and purposely sought her out to comfort her. Instead, she'd come to him. Not to tell him, though. She came because he was having his own problems, and she'd put herself last. Always putting herself last. He always let her. He told her that, too, while she lay there.

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

She could hear him.

She was sleeping.

_One last shot._

Inhale.

"Catherine…I never told you. The moment I met you, I knew. My life had been…incomplete before you. I had been missing something. And then you came along. You showed me how life could be—how I could be. You stayed by me through everything. My mother, my hearing, even my whole 'Sara-thing', as you liked to call it. And I never thanked you for that, did I? I never told you how much your support means to me. How much you mean to me."

Exhale.

Inhale.

"I guess I never had the courage to tell you. But it's funny—it's only now that you can't even tell me to stop that I find I have that courage. Cath…you have no idea how much I love you. Not just as a friend, because Lord knows I've done that since I first laid eyes on you. No, I love you the way that both you and I know that I shouldn't. And…I guess I'm sorry for that, Catherine. I'm sorry that I had to tell you this way. It's a cowardly way to do it. But I knew this would be my only chance. And that's…"

Exhale.

Inhale.

"That's all I ever really wanted to tell you, Catherine Willows."

_A/N: I know I said that this would only be two more chapters, but it felt completely natural to end this chapter here. So…_now _there's only two more chapters left. A HUGE thanks to all of my reviewers—twice as many reviews as any other chapter! Cookies to _soliz, Katrina, CSIJessica (_I totally agree with you—GSR is just overkill_), alora a calim, DrusillaBraun (_I can't kill Cath…shifty look_)? (_Thanks for the review!_), gloomy forensic scientist, Shy9 (_Oh, yay! I love fans!),_ csifan (_The edge of your seat? Mission accomplished!),_ CSIfreak, slizc, _and_ kiara malfoy. _Whew! Many, many, thanks to all—lurkers, I heart reviews. I really do. They are pretty much chocolate. Proverbially, of course, 'cause I love the real thing way too much._

_Click the purple button!_


	14. Hear Me

Miami  
Day 4- 8:00 AM  
Jackson Memorial Hospital

Gil Grissom was incredibly thankful the ward nurses had had the foresight to partially medicate Catherine before they left the hospital. Otherwise, Gil knew, having been with her after Lindsay had been born, she would put up the fight of the century to avoid sitting in a wheelchair. She'd snapped at him--"It makes me feel like an invalid," she'd whined—which was now partially true. The necessary surgeries to repair the minor internal bleeding and surface injuries required mild sedatives for the first twelve hours, anyway--what was the harm in another hour or two?

He only hoped she'd never find out, or he wouldn't live to see Las Vegas again.

Miami  
Day 4- 8:30 AM  
Horatio Caine's house

Horatio had never seen so many people in his house at one time. The hospital had sent over two nurses (a perk of having the MDPD on their side, he supposed) to settle Catherine into the spare bedroom. Gil had protested greatly when Horatio had instructed the hospital to send her things to his place.

"Caine, this isn't necessary," Gil has said, watching helplessly as Calleigh and Stella helped a groggy Catherine into a wheelchair. "We're perfectly capable of—"

"Well, Grissom," Horatio's hands propped themselves characteristically on his hips. "From what I see, the only choice you have is a hotel, which I refuse to allow to happen. You can't travel with her for at least two days—so, what's two more days in Miami?"

"Caine—"

"Look," Horatio stared Gil straight in the eye, "the case is wrapped up. Dalano's dead. What you and Catherine need now is to rest. And I'd rather have you do it on my watch than a room steward's."

Gil had conceded defeat. Catherine had been laid in the double bed of Horatio's spare bedroom with a groggily requested glass of water and a down comforter. Gil sat next to her in an armchair he'd pulled up to the bed.

Stella, standing silently in the doorway, watched the scene for a moment. Gil sat slouched in his chair, one hand clutching Catherine's and the other running dejectedly through his hair. His eyes were rimmed with exhaustion.

She knocked lightly on the open door.

"How's she doing?" Stella's whisper floated over to him as she tiptoed into the room. Gil gave a little half-shrug and continued to stroke the back of Catherine's hand with his thumb.

"Listen, Gil," Stella pulled up the writing desk's chair next to his. "I—just wanted to tell you," she sighed. "I just wanted to tell you that I understand."

Gil glanced at her.

"You understand what?"

"I understand this," she gestured between him and the sleeping Catherine. "What you feel. Because I've felt it. So many times, for so long. But I never—" she faltered. "I never had the chance to do anything about it. And I know you've done what you intended to do, Gil. I admire that. You have more strength than I can ever hope to possess. And, my God, she does, too."

Stella gazed at Catherine's form.

"I believe she cares for you, Gil. I believe that she's felt like that for a long time. I just hope she'll find the courage to tell you." She reached across to squeeze the hand that clutched Catherine's, then rose. "Mac and I are going to stick around for a few days. Turns out Horatio's got this thing for cooking, and I'd hate to have to leave before all of us get to celebrate together."

Gil glanced up at the curly-haired woman.

"Celebrate what?"

Stella merely winked.

Miami  
Day 4- 9:30 AM  
Horatio Caine's spare bedroom

She was dreaming again. She was _goddamn dreaming._ All she'd done for what seemed like forever was dream. There were times when she was conscious, yes, but sleep would claim her so quickly that she rarely noticed. And she kept hearing voices—sometimes indistinguishable, sometimes familiar, but always an intrusion. There were occasions when she welcomed the interruptions, though. A man's face would penetrate her dreams, dripping endless rainbow-coloured rivers over her skin, wrapping chains around her body until they sliced and cut her. Why couldn't she just _sleep_?

Her mind was rapidly bringing her back to the present. She fought against it—she wanted to remain in the place where Gil's voice would whisper words of comfort into her ear. Words of wisdom, regret; words of love. It was a disappointment to her every time she realized his words weren't real, that he had never confessed to her his love, that it was all a dream. She opened her eyes.

"Gil?"

Christ, it was bright!

"Cath," Gil sat forward in his chair, clasping her hand in both of his. "Cath."

"Hi," she smiled softly at him. The paint that had been cleaned from her body finally allowed him to see the rosy skin of her face. He never thought he'd ever love to see her smiling face more.

"Hi," he whispered. Catherine blinked, tried to check her watch. It wasn't there.

"What time is it?"

"Nine-thirty, on the twelfth," he replied, "you've been sedated for almost twenty-four hours. I've been with you."

She smiled again, squeezing his hand.

"I know. I could hear you."

Gil's eyes widened for a moment. Had she heard _everything_? He'd wanted to tell her all of it—but having to face her after? That was something that perhaps he'd counted on, but never assumed he'd have to face.

"Cath, I—I'm sorry—I just needed to talk—"

"Hey," she squeezed his hand again, "I never said you needed to apologize, did I? Truth is…I've been waiting for you to bring some of that up for so long…Eddie, the old days, even Linds."

"I never meant to hurt you, Catherine. I wanted to protect you, never to hurt you. Never." He stroked the back of her hand absentmindedly. "It's like you said—I'm not good with people."

She shook her head, laughing softly as she did so. He brushed a lock of strawberry blonde hair from her cheek.

Silence descended. Catherine watched his stroke her hand for a few minutes before whispering.

"Did you mean it?"

His head snapped up.

"Mean what?"

Catherine levelled her gaze with his. She fought to keep her voice steady.

"That you loved me."

Gil was sure that if it were physically possible, he would have beaten himself up. Or perhaps have gone back in time and stop himself from confessing his deepest, most intimate secret to the one woman it happened to be centred around.

Catherine's heart fell as his silence ticked longer. She withdrew her hand from his.

"Cath, I—"

"No, it's fine, Gil." She refused to set her blue eyes upon his. "Forget it."

"No, Cath," Gil quickly sat on the bed next to her, grasping her hand once more. "Let me explain."

"Gil," her tone was pleading, "just don't, okay? Let's just chalk it up to stress and forget it ever happened."

"No." Gil gently tipped her chin, forcing her to look at him. "I did. I meant it. It's just hard for me, I guess. You and I both know I'm not the most emotional person." He could see tears in her eyes. "I almost lost you, Catherine. I never want to feel that again. Not without you knowing that I love you. I've always loved you."

Catherine's smile and the look in her tear-filled eyes told Gil all he wanted to know. Without breaking eye contact, he gently brought her lips to his in a soft kiss.

Her heart was thudding against her rib cage as her lips were captured in his. It had taken them so many years, so many fights, so many tears. So many moments that could've been.

They broke apart. Smiling, Catherine leaned her forehead against his.

"I love you, too."

He laughed and kissed her again.

Miami  
Day 4- 10:15 AM  
Horatio Caine's house

"Look who's up!"

Stella and Calleigh quickly arrested Catherine from Gil's support and led her back out onto the patio, sitting her in the chair Mac had pulled out for her. She laughed.

"Thanks, guys. I'm still having trouble walking. What kind of sedatives _were _those, anyway?"

Gil kept innocently silent as he joined the others. The wooden deck they'd stepped out onto had a large, round oak table surrounded with comfortable-looking patio chairs. Gil slid into the one next to the jeans-and-a-t-shirt clad Catherine and smiled to himself. Mac gracefully led the conversation away from the 'mysterious' sedatives.

"How are you feeling, Catherine?"

"I'm better," she smoothly tangled her fingers with Gil's under the table. "Just a little shaky. It'll pass."

Mac nodded. He now had a feeling he knew what Stella had done when she'd disappeared earlier.

"What's happening with Dalano?" Gil asked Horatio, immediately feeling Catherine stiffen beside him. He tightened his grasp on her hand and rain his thumb over he knuckles to sooth her.

"His body is being transported to the morgue for Alexx to inspect, but cause of death is no mystery. Our nightshift CSIs are taking care of the warehouse." Horatio removed his sunglasses. "The Raleigh police called earlier. They discovered the body of Andrew Jenkins in a storage closet at the Raleigh-Durham International Airport, stripped and stabbed. Dalano killed him for his uniform and badge--he was an American Airlines pilot."

"Can we prove it was Dalano?" Calleigh asked him.

"Without a doubt. Jenkins had a small butterfly painted on his cheek."

The conversation turned away from Dalano after that. Catherine was clearly not ready to talk about what happened, and they were in no position to argue otherwise. Instead, the spoke of other things—Miami, baseball (both Gil and Mac perked noticeably as the subject was broached), shopping (Calleigh, Stella, and Catherine carried out that conversation while Mac and Gil bickered over the Cubs, Horatio thoroughly amused), and a whole host of other subjects that carried them through the morning and into the late afternoon.

At dusk, when the sun had started to set and the yard smelled of freshly-cut grass, Tim Speedle called to inform Horatio that he, Eric Delko, and the Las Vegas CSIs were going to remain in New York for another day before heading home. Jim Brass called to inform Gil of his departure from New York a few hours before. He told Gil to wish Catherine his best, and also took the time to tease him about his first use of his gun on the job.

"Hey, man, if I were you, _I _would've shot him in the—"

Gil quickly shushed Jim and bade him farewell. He could hear the Detective laughing as he hung up.

True to his word, Horatio disappeared to the Spanish-tiled kitchen and returned an hour later with the smell of marinated chicken trailing behind him. Calleigh grinned and swiftly collected a twenty-dollar bill from Stella.

They at as the sun set, talking and laughing as though they had known each other forever. The soft breeze that sashayed over them brought the sweet reassurance of a perfect night in Miami--the city was finally at rest. And the men and women of the great city would settle down for the night and await another day.

On the little patio, away from the noise and bustle of everyday life, where the only sound for miles was the ocean softly crashing against the shore, Stella Bonasera played poker with Calleigh Duquesne, Horatio Caine talked animatedly with Mac Taylor, and Catherine Willows watched the Miami sun go down with her body curled next to Gil Grissom's.

Tomorrow they would return to their homes, return back to their lives. But, for now, the six CSIs that had learned to call one another friend were content to sit back and watch life go by.

Tomorrow, they'd go back to normal.

_A/N: Wow…that took _forever _to write. Edit upon edit, revision upon revision, two different endings. But I like this one the best, I think. So, yes, there is one more chapter, just because I really wanted to go out on the same note I came in. And it's already written (in my head, anyway…), so I hope to have it up soon. It's been a wild ride, guys, and thanks for stickin' with me. Again, thanks are owed to the wonderful reviewers: _Megan-16-16, DrusillaBraun (_Close to tears? Mission accomplished! Thanks so much for all of your reviews_), coolcatz (_I'm sorry I was cruel! I hope this makes up for it_), gloomy forensic scientist, Jammalot, _and_ reviewer. _Many, many thanks to you all.  
_

_Click the purple button!_


	15. You and Me

Miami  
10:00 AM  
Miami International Airport (MIA)

Horatio Caine was smiling.

This in itself was not an unusual thing. Horatio smiled a lot, whether in love, happiness, or otherwise. Today, however, he sat in the throes of Miami International, smiling for absolutely no reason at all.

The people around him passed by without a second thought to the red-haired Lieutenant and his blonde-haired companion. Calleigh Duquesne sat next to Horatio, watching as her partner smiled slightly behind his ever-present sunglasses.

"Hey, handsome," she smiled. He turned to look at her. "You okay?"

Horatio raised his eyebrows at the blue-eyed Southern belle next to him.

"I'm fine, Calleigh." He smiled. "Just fine."

She laughed.

"In true Horatio Caine fashion, he fails to elaborate."

"Sorry," he chuckled, "but it's the truth. I really am fine. Nothing's wrong. The world is free of a dangerous murderer. Miami is at peace. I can honestly say that there is nothing for me to complain about in the world right now."

Calleigh tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled. Truth be told, she felt the same way Horatio did at that moment. She was content.

Still, a prickling of loss plagued her as she sat with Horatio. The last five days that had been passed in the company of the New York and Las Vegas CSIs had been the slowest, most nerve-wracking, wonderful hours that Calleigh had ever experienced. She felt a sort of kinship to the four men and women they'd said goodbye to only hours before. A bond had been formed between the six. They'd been thrown together by duty, stayed together by determination, banded together by tragedy, healed together by friendship. There was no doubt in Calleigh's mind that she would miss them.

Horatio had gotten up. The arrival of Flight 229 from New York had taxied into the gate was beginning to unload.

Laughing and joking, Tim Speedle and Eric Delko emerged from the runway, dropping their bags to hug Calleigh and to receive a warm handshake each from Horatio. They told Calleigh of their hellish flight (Tim fought hard not to laugh as Eric regaled them with the events involving himself, an airplane lavatory, and an extremely stubborn lock) and dug enthusiastically through their carry-on bags to produce to identical envelopes with both Calleigh and Horatio's names on them. Inside contained a single sheet of paper bearing the phrase "12/12/05"—the date of the weekend she and Horatio were instructed to take off later that year. Underneath, a handwritten note read:

"_Only four months away—this time no work-just play!_"

A single plane ticket to New York sat next to the note. Calleigh exchanged smiles with Horatio and tucked the envelope away.

Together, Calleigh, Horatio, Tim, and Eric left the airport and piled into Horatio's Hummer.

They were finally home.

New York  
7:00 PM  
House of Rice

Mac Taylor was hungry.

It happened often. Between pulling two all-nighters, flying all over the country to catch a serial killer and rescuing one man's true love (Mac pondered that it all sounded like a rather twisted fairy tale), he'd built up an appetite rivalled only to that of a tiger. So, when Stella had suggested they go out for Chinese food, the only thing faster than his affirmative reply was his hand grabbing for his car keys. The Chinese place they frequented was close, anyway.

Aiden Burn, Danny Messer, and Don Flack called to tell Stella that they were on their way, and could they "Please, please, with a cherry on top" order a plate of spring rolls for when they arrived? Stella had laughed and agreed.

Which was how Mac found himself munching happily on one of the many rolls a few minutes later. Stella couldn't blame him. The last meal they'd eaten was the night before, at Calleigh's proclaimed favourite restaurant—after that, only numerous cups of coffee and a croissant they'd split while waiting for their plane back to New York. She had opted to abstain from eating the plane food.

"What's up?" Mac questioned his partner across from him. She shrugged.

"Just thinking. Are you sure the plane tickets got to everyone?"

Mac nodded, smiling.

"I had Flack print off everything. Two went with Greg and Nick, and two went with Tim and Eric. They're in good hands."

Stella reluctantly grinned.

"If they're with Sanders…maybe not the _greatest _hands."

He laughed. Taking another roll, Mac popped it into his mouth and watched Stella stir her tea.

"You're going to miss them, aren't you?" He asked.

"Well, yeah, Mac." She smiled. "You can't spend an experience like that was someone and not. I don't think I'll ever forget the last five days."

Mac knew what she meant. The bond that had been forged between the six of them was one he never wished to break. He knew Stella felt the same way, too.

"Hey," he laid his hand on hers to draw her attention away from her tea, "we'll see them in a few months. And in the meantime, you've always got me."

Stella smiled and squeezed his hand gratefully.

Danny, Flack, and Aiden showed up as soon as Mac reached for another spring roll, laughing and talking. They ordered a bottle of red wine and clinked their glasses together in a toast.

"To us," Stella said. "May we never forget the true meaning of friendship."

The others agreed and drank to the pronouncement.

Mac watched his team interact with one another. They were smiling, laughing, relishing in the fact that they'd made some small difference in the world.

"What're you thinking?" Stella asked, watching him.

He raised his glass to hers and smiled as they touched. She smiled at him. He took a sip and leaned back, letting out a relaxed breath as he did so.

"Just that," Mac looked up and met Stella's eyes with his own. "It feels damn good to be home."

Las Vegas  
8:00 PM  
Catherine Willows' House

Gil Grissom was sleeping.

These days, this was a rarity for him to do. His sleep pattern had been somewhat interrupted since the kidnapping and subsequent rescue of the woman curled next to him. Since then, he had been afraid to sleep, lest he awake and find the last five days to be a dream. They had been days of intense trauma, yes, but without them, Gil was quite sure Catherine wouldn't be beside him. Without them, Gil would have never gotten the courage to tell her his deepest secret.

Thankfully, she harboured the same one.

Gil was in such a deep sleep he failed to hear the dinging of the front doorbell as it was continually rung throughout the house.

"Gil," Catherine mumbled, snuggled into his chest, "get the door."

"Maybe whoever it is will go away." He whispered.

Catherine didn't say anything, but promptly shoved him over the side of the bed.

"Aw, Cath…"

"If you want to marry me, Gil Grissom, you'll answer the damn door."

Gil smirked as he pulled on a grey t-shirt.

"And who said I wanted to marry you?"

She opened her eyes to stare at him.

"What? Am I not marriage material?"  
Gil smiled and leaned over, brushing the strawberry blonde curls from her face and kissing her forehead.

"Of course you are, Cath," he said. "But let's take this one step at a time, okay?"

She smirked and brought his head down for a swift kiss before sending him on his way.

"Go answer that door before Greg has a heart attack."

"How do you know it's Greg?" He called as he ambled down the hall.

"Women's intuition!" She called back.

Sure enough, as soon as Gil opened the front door, Greg Sanders bounded in, grinning and carrying more grocery bags than Gil could count. Nick Stokes, Warrick Brown, and Sara Sidle, all of who carried bags, as well, followed him.

"What're you doin' here, Grissom?" Greg inquired, smirking underneath his grin in the most annoyingly knowing way.

"I _was _sleeping, Greg," Gil sighed. "What exactly are _you _doing here?"

"They came to se me, of course!" Catherine entered the front room, pulling her hair into a ponytail and wearing one of Gil's shirts with her favourite pair of jeans.

" 'Course we did." Greg grinned. Catherine laughed.

"What's all this?" She indicated the bags still clutched in the lab rat's hands.

"Well," Nick said, "we figured you'd need a little help around here until you get back on your feet."

"Yeah," Warrick said, "plus, we missed you."

Sara nodded.

"And we felt like a barbeque."

The group headed into the kitchen without further explanation, leaving both Gil and Catherine standing at the front door with rather surprised looks upon their faces.

"You okay?" Gil asked her.

"Yeah," she smiled weakly. "I just wasn't prepared for all the energy."

He smiled and pulled her to him, enveloping her in a warm hug. She buried her head in the crook of his neck.

"What would I do without you?" She whispered.

"Hey, I should be asking you that." He rested his chin on top of her head. "You're going to be okay, Cath."

She titled her head up to meet his gaze and smiled, placing a soft hand on his cheek.

"I know," she whispered. Her lips met his in a gentle kiss. "I have you."

Hand in hand, they turned and made their way into the kitchen to join their team.

Who knows what tomorrow may bring? Everyday, one by one, men and women venture into our lives and leave just as quickly. They may only stay for a few days, a few hours, or a few years, but each one of those men and women leave a lasting impression upon us and change us for the better or worse. They leave their footprints in the sand of our hearts. And each one of these people change us in some way, shape, or form. What is important to remember is to enjoy the time we have with those around us—they may not be there tomorrow. Cherish the love, the happiness, the memories that linger, and learn to live in the moment.

For Gil Grissom and Catherine Willows—well, let's just say they've learned their lesson well. Maybe a little _too _well…but that's another story.

_A/N: Wow. That was one of the hardest chapters I've probably ever had to write. This story has been a complete joy to write, and a complete labour of love. I truly hope you enjoyed it, because I truly enjoyed writing it. And to all of my reviewers: Thank you, from the deepest place in my heart. Your words always make me smile. I'd like to thank the lovely reviewers from the last chapter: _Megan 16-16 (_I'm glad you enjoyed the gooey/cheesy stuff—I love writing it!), _Katrina (_Wow! I love that enthusiasm! I hope this chapter partially satisfied your shipper needs :D), _gloomy forensic scientist (_Of _course _I don't mind. The three-way crossover was in no way solely my idea, and I absolutely look forward to reading yours), _DrusillaBraun (_Lmao, well, I don't know about the good story/bad story ending theory, but that was just funny to read. Thanks so much for all of your reviews—now that I have time I'll definitely be checking out your wonderful fics!), _Shy9 (_Sunny holiday? Lucky you! Thanks so much for the review), _sweetlake-girl (_No way I mind you reading all the way through to review this one! I'm glad I sucked you in enough to keep your attention), _Cathryn G (_Oh, no worries, you'll be reading more from me soon enough. Thanks so much for the wonderful compliment—I'm blushing!), _kiara-malfoy (_Unfortunately, this is the end, but I'll still be around with some other projects I'm working on!), _Ally (_Thanks so much!), and /phew/ _reviewer (_I'm so glad you loved the story. All the positive feedback I'm getting is so encouraging). _

_Okay, this is officially the longest Author's Note in the history of Author's Notes. Just one more note: for those of you asking about my WIPs…keep a lookout, that's all I'm going to say._

_…No, I'm not really that mean! WIPs 2 and 3 are deep in the mix. Lots of chapters and lots of adventures ahead! Expect them relatively soon._

_So, for the last time…(oh, that's sad…)_

_Click the purple button! _


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